


In Symbols, His Name

by l_e_crivainsolitaire



Series: In Symbols, His Words [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Family, Family Fluff, Fatherhood, Love Letters, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Orphans, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Trespasser, Romantic Fluff, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_e_crivainsolitaire/pseuds/l_e_crivainsolitaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child shows up in Tevinter seeking Magister Pavus. But Dorian has no time for children, especially ones that lie.<br/>Told from the perspective of Dorian and a child, enjoy the story set in post-Trespasser that spans 12 years with Fen'Harel's war looming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hungry, a Barbarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Marcher child shows up in Dorian's manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thank you for your interest. I have been thinking about this story for a while. I think Dorian with children is interesting. He seems he would be a good father. I like to give him all the things that he once believed he can't have.

**|| Hungry, A Barbarian**

**|| Nine.**

 

A Marcher child, in Tevinter.

“My father is dead,” mouth stuffed with bread. Unblinking eyes tell Dorian the Marcher child pretends to move past it. Marcher Child takes another loaf, stuffs his face, he chokes. Dorian ignores it, the child is hungry.

“And your mother?” Ah, but he knows the answer. 

“I don’t have one.” Finally, Marcher Child stops eating, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. _So barbaric_ , Dorian thinks.  

“Little one, why are you here?” Because Dorian is practically an old man—thirty eight years _young_ , Ry’del insists. Old men don’t have time for barbaric Marcher Children who chokes on bread. 

Marcher Child is quiet, eyes looking everywhere but Dorian. “Are you going to send me away? They said I could come here and I’ll be taken somewhere safe—you’re Magister Pavus, right?”

Dorian shifts in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Who said you can come here?”

“A woman,” he’s eyeing the grapes. Dorian starts peeling them.

“This woman, what did she look like. Or better yet, do you remember her name?” He drops peeled grapes on the child’s plate.

He eats it cautiously and decides he likes it, “I don’t know her name but she goes like this all the time,” the child pulls his eyebrows together in a frown, raises a hand, puts on a scowl, and makes a disgusted noise.

Dorian smiles, peeling more grapes. “Ah, Cassandra.” Where was she now? Surely, she must still be in Ferelden. Or is Solas’ war reaching farther north than expected?

Marcher Child shrugs, “sure.” He starts peeling grapes too.

“And she told you to come _here_ , to Magister Pavus’ home in Tevinter, of all places?” Dorian leans forward, watching the child.

“Yes,” He eats three grapes.

“But _why_? Who was your father?”

“My father is Aldred Asker.” Marcher Child answers. _Was_. Dorian corrects in his head, but the child knows this.

Dorian turns the name in his head, “I don’t know any Askers,” he decides.

Marcher Child laughs, “of course you won’t! My father is—” _Was_. Dorian feels wicked. “—a farmer near Ostwick.” He makes a note of looking around the kitchen. It’s dark but golden, “I don’t come from money.”

“Alright, but why would Cassandra send you here? Do you have special instructions for me?”

Marcher Child furrows his brows, “she said you can help me,” he raises his hands to pull on his sleeves. Burns on palms and arms. “I can’t control it yet.”

“Ah,” Dorian realizes. The child has come into his magic. He remembers his own, so young then, burning his toys and the drapes. Was Cassandra’s purpose to have him teach the child? He could. He _should_. When not properly cultivated, magic can be very dangerous. Even now, Marcher Child displays a power that could turn on him without notice. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head, wild hair everywhere. “Not anymore. The woman’s people took care of it.” He draws his hands away.

“Oh good, less things for me to worry about.” Dorian eats grapes himself. Marcher Child’s appetite is getting to him. “So, am I supposed to teach you magic?”

“You know magic?” Eyes large full of expectation.

“Do _I_ know _magic?_ ” Dorian raises an eyebrow, “how rude. Yes.”

Marcher Child tilts his head, frown on his face. “So you’ll teach me?” Dorian could laugh.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” Dorian waves for him to stand, “walk with me.” The child does as he is told. They exit the kitchen and travel down the hall. The manor is very big, far too big for any one man. The child follows closely behind Dorian, the halls are too dark and golden. It’s brighter when his _amatus_ is here.

“Tell me, Little One,” Dorian interrupts the silence, “What’s your name?”

A noise makes the child grab a hold of the magister’s robes, but just as quickly letting go when Dorian peers down at him. “Marek.” He says, voice small.

“And you’re how old?”

“I’m twelve.”

_What a terrible liar, positively Marcher._ “You’re awfully small for twelve.”  

“Well, I’m almost twelve.” So defiant. Another look from Dorian and the child submits. “Okay, I’m nine.” He gives up so easily. And the child is awfully trusting. And young. So little and alone.

They round a corner and arrive in the study.

“Alright, Marek,” Dorian offers the child a seat. “I’m not quite sure why Cassandra would send you here without purpose. Until I hear word from her, you’re staying with me then. It’s not quite safe here in Tevinter...with a large elven army excited to take it down. It would be best if you don't  wander away from the grounds.”

Marek nods, “I heard the stories. Fen’harel.” He shudders, “he’s a bad man.”

Dorian looks on, pain suddenly etched between his brows.

_"Dorian, would you mind coming down from there and talk to me face to face? My neck is getting painfully stiff.”_

_Laughter. “I suppose I could honor you with my presence once in awhile!” Dorian walks down the stairs to greet his friend, the elf full of knowledge. They exchange stories, theories, and epiphanies. He’s a bad man._

“Will you teach me magic while I’m here?” Marek speaks and the memory is lost in a fog.

“What was that? Teach you magic?” Dorian raises his head, nose in the air with a raised brow. The look of importance came so naturally.

“Yes,” Marek nods, corners of lips curling into a smile. “I want to learn so bad.”

“Well, the problem is, magic is not learned.” Dorian starts, and Marek shrinks in his seat. “Magic is birthed. It’s nurtured and cultivated.”

The child looks deep in thought, “so can you teach me how to cutilvate it?”

Dorian smiles, the Marcher child was quite endearing. “Cultivate.”

“Cultlivate it.” Oh, Maker does the child try.

“Cull-tee-vate.”

The child’s face twists with concentration, “Cumtivate.”

“Oh, you’ve lost all sense of the word, Little One.” Dorian laughs.

“Doesn’t matter. Will you teach me or not?” The child is scowling now.

“I suppose I can. There is no harm done teaching you a few things here and there.” Dorian muses. It would be interesting to have a child around—he could help with the research. The small things, of course, collecting rashvines in the garden, or having him work the pestle and mortars. “I will teach you, Marek,” Dorian decides, “but know there are rules. I won’t teach you how to burn things, I’ll help you control it, yes, but burning—I can’t have you do that quite yet.”

“You’ll help me with my research. There is a garden in the manor grounds, and I’ll have you pick out any herbs that I need. You’ll fetch things for me, and follow everything I say. Understood?”

The boy beams, “like an apprentice?”

Dorian laughs, “yes, I suppose. Like an apprentice.” Dorian moves towards a desk piled high with books and scrolls. “I’ll also have you fetch books for me. The laboratory is awfully far from the library. Can you read?”

Marek pursues his lips, “I can read some things.” His voice is small and insecure.

“That won’t do,” Dorian sighs. “I suppose I’ll teach you to read as well—perhaps Tevene will catch on at some point as well.” Dorian gauges the child, looking at his expressions and his body language, and he is burning. Hot with excitement and expectations.

“First lesson, Marek,” Dorian crosses his arms across his chest, “keep your emotions in check, you’re charging your magic as we speak and if you continue, you’ll set fire to my home.”

Marek blinks at the realization and the heat radiating from him subsides. “Okay. What’s the next lesson?”

“Ah,” Dorian gathers his own mana, “the second lesson is how to heal.”

A mage child in Tevinter, with a dead father and a dead mother. Old men have time, after all, for barbaric Marcher Children who chokes on bread.

_Oh, Amatus, what would you think?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!


	2. Marcher, a Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian teaches Marek a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired. I will edit this in a while. Pardon mistakes.

**|| Marcher, A Mage**

**|| Nine.**

 

“Again,” Dorian tries to hide a face of annoyance. It has been weeks, and still, Marek’s ability to hold a spirit barrier is weak. “You have to draw it out—gather it around you _slowly_. You’re doing it too fast.” Dorian instructs for the fifth time. It was a slow but steady process.

Marek tries again, and this time, the barrier surrounds him with a steady pulse. But his excitement gets to him and he builds his mana too quickly. The barrier grew and fizzled out after a mere second, leaving Marek exhausted and drained.

Dorian sighs, but nods. He doesn’t want to discourage the child. “Good. It’s much better.” He pushes Marek’s hair away from his face, surprising himself with the gesture. “Why don’t you take a break for now? Come back in the afternoon and I’ll teach you how to heal small wounds.”

“Okay! Can I go by the pond?” Marek is excited. He enjoys practicing magic, but the breaks between training were few and far in between, the child needs to play.

Dorian laughs, “of course,” he starts to put things away. “Just don’t jump into the pond like last time. It’s not a swimming hole.”

“Yes!” Marek nods and starts to run towards the gardens, be he stops halfway, runs back and gives Dorian a tight hug of thanks before going. _That was_ ... _different_ . Dorian thinks, but _it was nice_ , he decides. He could get used to this. _Used to what?_ His mind mocks. _Used to fatherhood?_ Dorian ignores the intrusive thoughts and returns to cleaning up the area, but it’s no use. The thought is already there and it torments him so.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dorian,” he scolds himself in a whisper, trying to busy himself with scrolls and books of potion recipes. There is a particular recipe he knows he wants Marek to learn—it would be of great use to him when he leaves in the future.

 

**++**

 

When Dorian asked me if I could read or write, it really made me feel upset. I don’t know how to do those things because my father didn’t teach me. But he said I knew how to talk well, and he said that if you talk well, then you don’t need to read or write. But I’m still so happy that Dorian is teaching me how to do it. I think I’ll become really smart and read all the books in his library. Then I can also make my own potions because I could read the ingredients myself.

There is one thing from the scrolls that I could read. It said, “frog guts.” I want to catch a frog and give it to Dorian so he can make that potion—whatever it is. I bet it’s scary. Dorian is kind of scary, but he’s nice too. Sometimes he looks really far away and I have to say his name three times before he comes back. I know how adults look when they’re sad, and Dorian always seems sad.

The sun is now high in the sky—lunch time. Dorian said he is going to buy treats from the market, something from Antiva. I run back to the manor, hungry and excited. I remember the frog I had caught and take him with me. In the kitchen, Dorian was already seated at the table, his napkin placed neatly on his lap. I take my place next to him.

“There you are,” he says to me, there was a small box in the middle of the table. He puts a finger on it and smiles. “You’re incredibly spoiled for a Marcher child,” he says, opening the lid of the box. I kneel on my seat and peer in. They looked like cookies, with some filling inside.

“What is it?” I ask, leaning closer to smell it. I want to take one, but Dorian never lets me eat anything sweet before my meal.  

“ _Alfajor_ ,” Dorian replies, “Antivans are awfully terrible at dressing, but their confections are delightful.”

I laugh, I like the weird words that Dorian uses all the time. I close the lid of the box as Dorian gives me a prepared plate. It always looks delicious, but this one had too many vegetables and it made me hesitate. I start eyeing the confections, thinking of a way to get to them without Dorian noticing.

But he does notice—I know he has magic eyes floating everywhere, he just won’t admit it. “You know the rules, Little One.” Dorian says, not looking up as he ate. “Finish your meal then you can have some—or all of it.”

I do as he says and eat quickly, but then I remember the frog!

“Dorian,” I kick my legs from excitement. “In the library, there was a scroll with a potion recipe.”

“What about it?” He stops eating, giving me that look where he tries to look busy when he’s not.

“Can we make it?” I say, getting up from my seat to get the frog. “It said we needed frog guts, so I got you a frog.”

Dorian puts his fork down, “a what? Marek, did you bring a frog into the house?”

I don’t answer him, scoop the frog from the bucket, and return to Dorian. He frowns at it when I put it on the table. “I can’t get its guts, so you have to do it.”

“My dear, dear Marek,” Dorian pushes the frog away from his plate with a covered hand. “This is a toad and not a frog.” It jumps towards him, and Dorian quickly stands up, cursing in Tevene—I know it’s a curse because the first time he said it, he told me not to say it. “Maker, can you please take it away.”

“We can’t use toads for the potion?” I am disappointed, taking the toad.

Dorian puts his fingers between his eyes. “Why don’t you get me that scroll, and I’ll see if it would work with toads.” I accept the task immediately, running to the library almost to the other side of the manor. I know this place like the back of my hand now, it is easy to find things—even if it is so big.

The library was full of books, so many books that look old and scary. The scroll is where I had left it the other day, but I check it to make sure it was.

 

_… the … Potion_

_… … Pavus,_

_I … a potion from your … The one that helps with … I now … it’s … to be … a … of this, but … Your recipe is the best … and I am so … with all the … in my …_

_..._

_… of … Frog guts_

 

Satisfied I have the correct scroll, I run it back to Dorian and hand it to him. “What does it do? Does it make a poison?” I ask, my breath running short.

Dorian takes a second to read the recipe, a smile appearing on his face. He pats my head and gestures for me to sit next to him. “Here, let’s read it together.” Dorian points to each word as he reads it, and I repeat after him.

 

_Regarding the Elfroot Potion_

_Dear Magister Pavus,_

_I request a potion from your stocks. The one that helps with headaches. I know it’s unconventional to be asking a Magister of this, but please. Your recipe is the best around and I am so troubled with all the pounding in my head._

_Sincerely,_

_Michelle of House Froggats_

 

“Oh,” I realize my mistake and I feel my cheeks warm.

But Dorian pats my head again, “you did very well, for only learning a few words in the past few days. A month of two more and perhaps you’ll be reading quite well.”

I like the praise, so I beam at him.

“If you are disappointed that we didn’t make a potion with frog guts, I can teach you something better. No need to slice open a frog’s belly, however.” He hands me back the scroll. “If you’re ready now, go to the gardens and pick out three of the best elfroot leaves then come to the lab.”

“What are we making?” I ask, already heading towards the gardens.

Dorian smiles, “that’s a surprise!”

 

**++**

 

Marek is a studious and attentive child. He listens carefully and has a knack for choosing the best ingredients for a potion recipe. The child is also a fast learner, being able to read a short story in just two months.

It is time, Dorian thinks, for the child to control his magic. But before that, the child must learn how to make a burn potion from memory. He sets out the ingredients, carefully aligning them on the table.

Dorian takes a step back to examine the setup. As he realizes he had forgotten the pestle and mortar, there was a heavy knock on the open lab door.

“Ah, Brandon, how are you?” He looks up, giving his trusted messenger a smile.

“I’m doing well, Magister Pavus. And yourself?” Brandon nods, returning the smile.

Dorian sighs, “I think I’m doing okay. What do you have for me?"

Brandon fishes something out of a knapsack. “A message from Ferelden. The route has been disastrous by late, so messages have been delayed.” He hands the letter to Dorian.

“You’re doing good work, Brandon.” Dorian opens the letter immediately—it’s from Cassandra. He pats Brandon’s arm. “Your pay is in the trunk as usual. Take care of yourself, alright?”

“You too Magister Pavus,” Brandon grins and leaves—stopping a moment to sniff at a few potions on the table. He picks up and shakes a healing potion. “Mind if I take this?”

“Take three,” Dorian replies, busy reading the letter. Brandon mutters a “yes” and picks three out before bounding out of the lab.

 

 _Dear Dorian—_ the word “dear” is crossed out, but re-written again.  

 

 _I am so happy to hear from you. I hope you can forgive my writing. I am not the most adept writer_ (Dorian laughs). _Th_ _e Iron Bull and I are still in Ferelden, there are strange things happening in the Hinterlands and we are trying to get to the bottom of it. Lavellan was with us a few weeks ago, but he joined Blackwall to check on Crestwood. I have not heard word from him, but I am sure he will be fine. He is a good warrior Dorian. He does send his love and hopes to travel to Tevinter when time permits._

_As for the child, I don’t recall sending a child to Tevinter. I wouldn’t do that without a guard. I don’t know who this child is, please be wary. It could be a trap._

_Take care of yourself Dorian, with the war with Solas becoming brutally violent as the years go by, we need you more than ever._

 

_Always,_

_Cassandra_

 

Dorian breathes, old men had no time for barbaric Marcher children who lied.

 

**++**

 

Marek returns to the lab with three elfroot leaves in hand. The smile on the child’s face almost makes Dorian waver—but he must know.

“I received a letter today,” Dorian says coolly, his posture slouched and tired. He did not want to do this. It was the last thing in his mind.  

Marek knows who the letter is from, of course he does, but he asks anyway, “who is it from?” The lack of excitement in his voice is a sign.

“Cassandra Pentaghast. The woman who sent you here.”

“Did you open it yet?” The child is now anxious, twiddling his thumbs as he rocks on his heels.

Dorian nods, “yes. Should I tell you what it says?”

“Okay,” Marek answers timidly.

Dorian hands the letter to the child, “it says Cassandra does not recall sending a child to Tevinter.”Marek thumbs the letter, not even looking.

“So tell me, Marek, who are you really?” Dorian’s tone is harsher than he meant. “Why are you here?” Dorian doesn’t want to be cautious, but at these times, it is difficult not to.

“Are you mad at me?” The child, frowns, trying to keep his tears at bay.

Dorian is slightly surprised, “no,” he softens his tone. “It was dangerous, coming to Tevinter. Especially by yourself. I’m not mad. I’m...disappointed you wouldn’t tell me from the beginning.” He hates saying it, but it is what he feels.

“I was in Cassandra’s camp and I heard there was a Tevinter mage in the Inquisition.” He still avoids Dorian’s gaze. “And he was very good with fire. I just wanted to learn magic, because I keep hurting people. I couldn’t control it and I burned down my father’s farm. Then...he left me.” Marek’s frown starts quivering, and soon, he’s crying. Tears streaming down his face, wailing. Dorian, despite all his better judgement, scoops Marek up in his arms and hugs him tightly. They stay that way for what seems like an eternity until Marek calms down.

Dorian wipes the child’s face with the sleeve of his robes. “Why don’t you go get some sleep? You’ve had a long day.” Marek nods sleepily, eyes puffy, and a lethargy in him.  

As soon as Marek is out of view, Dorian buries his face in his hands. _Maker help me, I think I’ve just adopted a child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the image of Dorian being a father...or taking on that role. He seems like the type to pretend he doesn't like kids, but secretly loves their squishy face.
> 
> Also, Marek's part will always be in first person perspective.


	3. Necromancer, a Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek learns a new spell, Dorian commits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time it took me to update is ridiculous. I apologize. 
> 
> Unedited, short, and took me six hours because I've been so LAZY.

**|| Necromancer, A Father**

**|| Ten.**

The child— Dorian calls him, _my child_ —is a year older, magic flowing much stronger than the day he arrived. Marek is in control now, but his emotions can be wild and his powers flow with him. Sometimes, burnt curtains are the least of Dorian’s worry.

But Dorian regrets little. The Marcher Child is now completely his, like his own child that scurries around the manor with a wide grin and strong magic. His guests at times question him, with snide and pompousness in their tone.

“Who _is_ your new little plaything, Dorian? Some Ferelden pauper?” A giggle, a laugh, an ignorant aristocratic joke.

“My student,” Dorian would reply, a tight smile. A week later, they would find their reputations destroyed, their pool of money inexplicably drained. Dorian realizes it’s petty revenge, but it’s aristocratic in the very least—even they could appreciate that.  

Dorian dotes on the child. He can’t help it, he wants Marek to be as comfortable in the Pavus manor he possibly can. Thank the Maker it’s Marek himself who doesn’t allow Dorian to spoil him too much.

“What are we learning today?” Marek asks Dorian at breakfast. The child has been building his skills slowly but surely. He has been taught several healing spells, how to dispel fire, and how to create a fire projectile. Little steps, Dorian had told him when he got too impatient.

“Is there something you’re just _dying_ to learn,” Dorian asks, a small smile on his face. “I’ll let you choose this time.”

Marek thinks hard, his brows furrowing. “Immolate.” He answers after a good minute.

The request takes Dorian by surprise, he almosts says no. It wouldn’t be fair, however, to let the child choose and take it back. Instead, Dorian gives him a word of warning. “That’s a strong spell.”

“I know,” Marek replies, sipping at his tea with utmost normalcy—it unnerves Dorian for a moment.

“I would need all your focus on this, Marek.” Dorian pushes his plate away, his stomach churning from nervousness. “Do you understand?”

Marek’s mouth is full, so he nods. He swallows his food and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “I prepared healing vials early this morning. And you won’t let me get hurt too much, I’m sure.” He grins and Dorian’s heart wavers. How he wishes he could write Ry’del and tell him of his child—or perhaps, if life is kind, _their_ child.

“Alright,” Dorian sighs, waving to Shaela, an Antivan maid, to clear up the table. Marek, bless his soul, helps her, prompting Dorian to do so as well.

“Change these clothes,” Dorian orders Marek after, “wear one of those robes gifted you.”

“The plaidweave?” Marek scrunches his face. The boy is starting to understand these things.

Dorian gives a fake laugh, “Maker knows I didn’t—wouldn’t—let something that hideous within these walls.” Marek laughs at this. “No, the gurgut webbing.”

“Got it,” Marek smiles, rushing away to his room.

“Master Marek grows stronger and happier each day, Magister Pavus.” Shaela says in her timid voice.

“Ah,” Dorian tries to hide his expression. “Indeed!” Shaela says nothing after, but she itches to say something more.

“Do say what you need to Shaela,” Dorian encourages. “I can’t spend weeks with you twiddling your thumbs because you can’t vocalize your thoughts.”

Shaela bites her bottom lip, hesitating. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “As you know, Master Marek  joins me down in the markets. He hears things.”

“Yes?” Dorian is feeling snappish now, his heart beating. “Spit it out.”

“There’s a rumor that Tevinter will be the first to collapse under Fen’Harel. Master Marek is scared—I think.” Shaelen’s tongue is loose now. “I told him he has nothing to fear, that you’re there to protect him.”  

Dorian looks away, “oh,” is all he could manage.

“I think he knows you would protect him, but it would be good for him to hear that from you.” Her voice is surprisingly strong and Dorian is almost impressed, until she puts her hands to her mouth. “I’m sorry for talking out of turn!”

“Don’t,” Dorian sighs, a warm hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me.”

She nods quickly and excuses herself out of the kitchen, scolding herself quietly as she did.

 _Amatus_ , Dorian thinks, _there is much to tell you_.

 

**++**

 

Marek appears in the ballroom with his gurgut webbing robes. The excitement within him is contagious and Dorian feels sparks buzzing at his fingertips. Still, he reminds himself the spell he is teaching today will need a calm in Marek’s emotions, not excitement.

“Do your exercises, Marek,” Dorian orders as he pulses the room with a fire protection spell.

Marek picks up a staff leaned against a wall, but Dorian tells him to return it. “Learn without the staff and when you’re ready, the staff.” Marek nods and begins his exercises.

Fire is so wild and Marek is wilder still. He jumps and spins, fire shooting from his fingers. The wide grin on his face reminds Dorian of himself.

“How does it feel?” Dorian quickly checks Marek’s arms for any burns, there weren’t any. The boy was getting better.

“Easy,” Marek replies breathlessly. “I’m ready.”

Dorian casts a barrier around Marek, “watch first.” Dorian takes a moment to make sure Marek is looking before beginning. “When you’re creating a burst of fire, you collect your energy towards your hands and project it outwards to create a stream that breaks off—creating a fireball. In Immolate, you have to understand that you’re not trying to singe something...you’re trying to burn flesh from bone. Immolate is an offensive spell, used to fight back with and should be used only when you need it. I cannot stress this enough. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Marek’s eyes are wide and focused.

There is hesitation in Dorian, he fears so much about teaching a child a spell like this, but if it would quell his fears about the impending war...so be it. He may have to fight for himself one day. “Similar to every spell, you have to gather your mana, not towards your hands but towards your chest. You want to feel the fire build at your center, travel to your feet and disperse it upwards towards a specific area...like so.” Fire bursts meters away from Marek. The flames are hot enough to feel them from where they stand. Dorian releases the barrier spell. “You’ll feel tired the first time, but it will get better. Are you ready to try?”

“Build at center,” Marek breathes, the air tingles with his magic. “Towards feet and disperse.”

A small flame bursts a few steps away from Marek, dying out as fast as he casted it. “You’re not building enough mana,” Dorian suggests, standing back.

Marek begins again, this time, truly focusing on the task. But alas, the child finds trouble with redirecting his mana and his second spell sputters near Dorian. Again and again, Marek tries without much success. Dorian allows him two mana potions before letting the child know this would be his last chance for today.

The child struggles, and Dorian feels it. It pains him to watch Marek’s face fall. From annoyance, to frustration, to anger.

“Perhaps, it’s time to stop,” Dorian says warily, worry on his brow.

“No,” Marek yells. There are tears falling from his eyes now.

“Balance, Marek!” Dorian reminds him, gathering his own mana. The child has a storm in him.

And Marek continues, muttering to himself. Marek screams. Dorian casts.

Dorian flash steps to knock Marek out of the way as wild flames engulf the spot where the child was standing a moment ago. The fire rages, breaking the protection spell Dorian had casted earlier. He tries to douse it with a cold spell, but the fire continues to grow.

 

**++**

 

I’m on the floor, feeling the fire I had casted spread on the ballroom floor. I don’t know why but I’m crying a lot.

“I don’t want you to die!” I yell, surprising myself. “I don’t want Shaela to die, I don’t want to die,” I hiccup from the lack of air. I repeat this again and again, delirious.

Dorian scoops me up. A hand moving in circles on my back.

“Marek, it’s okay.” He whispers to me, rocking me back and forth. I could still feel the heat from the fire. “It’s okay.” His embrace is warm and comforting and I feel myself calming down.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll never let anything happen to you. I promise.” Dorian is crying too and the fire starts dying. “You’re my son, Marek. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

I feel the weakness in my body and I drift to sleep.


	4. Marek, a Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letter correspondence between Dorian and his lover.

**|| Marek, a Pavus**   
**|| Ten, Twelve.**

_Amatus_ ,

Before news reaches you with ill formed words, leading to a misunderstanding that may shock you, I decided to write to you first. How I wish I could tell you in person. More so to kiss those lips of yours and warm myself in your sunlit eyes. I blush, writing these. Never let these letters out of your reach. I’d die of embarrassment if Bull ever gets his hands on them.

Nevermind, I digress.

I have no other way to say this, so I’ll say it outright.

I am adopting a child.

Or rather, officially presenting Marek—I’ve talked about him, have I not—as a Pavus. An heir. _My_ heir! Can you believe it? I suppose you could say I have grown fond of him—tease me now if you must, or tell me “I told you so.”

Under my tutelage, he has grown quite powerful. He’s talented and a quick study. And the child is sweet and kind. A rarity here in Tevinter. Maker, this child has won my heart.

Just tell me, _Amatus_ , am I doing the right thing? For Marek, for me, for us? I don’t go a day without thinking about you and how to tell Marek everything about you. How do I explain to him how much I love you and how much your existence coincide with mine?

Marek trusts so little at times, and I fear he’d reject you. I cannot bear the thought.

Look at me, dampening an event that warrants celebration!

Please reply soon. My heart aches for your touches.

Your Heart

 

_The letter is delivered swiftly. Narrowly being intercepted by Solas’s scouts._

 

**++**

 

My Love,

I trust your decisions. Your recent letters have all been about little Marek and how fond you are of him. I am happy there is someone there to keep you company. Happier still for the positive addition to your— _our_ , am I too bold?—family. Remember that your happiness is mine.

If Marek is everything you’ve told me about, he will understand—perhaps it would take some time—but I know he will understand. If not, I’ll have to show up myself and win his favor!

And yes, I’ll make sure not to let Bull get to any of your letters! I miss you as well. I miss your voice, your laugh, your kiss, your eyes, your warmth. I miss you so much and the next time I lay my eyes on you, I will kiss you everywhere—it will be scandalous!

We’re heading off to the Frostback Basin. I don’t know how long we’ll be there—or if your letters will reach me. But know I’m thinking of you.

Always,

Ry’del

 

_The letter is intercepted but is allowed to be received._

 

**++**

 

 _Amatus_ ,

My heart soars at the thought of  _us_ as a family. But I won't let that thought go further.

Tevinter is feeling restless. Solas’s army is putting pressure in the far west. The rumors that Tevinter will be the first to fall grow stronger. I’m busy training mages for this bloody war—they’ve been looking to me as a leader. I don’t know how you do it…

Marek is getting stronger as well. I still have not told him about you. I want him to meet you in person. I hope you can forgive me.

Your Heart

 

_The letter is delivered, but a reply is not received._

 

**++**

 

 _Amatus_ ,

It’s hard sometimes, not to hear from you. Although, I understand completely.

Is it mad of me to dedicate this letter to the ministrations I’d do to you the next time I see you? I wonder if Fen’Harel would intercept it. “I wonder what Magister Pavus needs to say to Inquisitor Lavellan?!”

If so, then I at least relish at the thought of Solas’s shocked face! The Horror!

That brings me some petty happiness.

Do you remember that time you sneaked into Tevinter? All wet from the rain? It’s an image I return to often. Perhaps it has something to do with how forward you were than night. Do you remember Amatus?

You surprised me with a rough kiss and rode me to my intense pleasure. I can’t understand it sometimes. How one moment, you’re slaying beast after beast, then next, you’re moaning with my cock in you.

Was that too crass for a letter?

Sometimes I lie awake at night frustrated with the thought!

I love you, _Amatus_ , I wish I could tell you this everyday.

Your Heart

 

_The letter is intercepted._

 

**++**

 

 _Amatus_ ,

My son grows another year! He has mastered several lightning spells. I’ve tried to teach the boy a few cold spells, yet he struggles with them so much. Understandably. His fire burns white—it’s almost curious. I think I’ll delve into his family history, there may be a famous fire mage in there centuries ago.

Marek also writes beautifully and is starting to speak quite eloquently. At least, enough so that the other houses are accepting him as one of their own. Even found new friends in the Rosenhain children—Vinaeres, Ditrik, and Nikal. Tevinter-Antivan mix if I am to believe. Kind family. Oh, and because I know you, I ask you not to have Bull look into them. The Rosenhain’s are a ball of light in this bleak game of politics. I’d rather not have them suspicious of me. Thank you.

At this new age, Marek has also started asking questions about my “mystery friend.” I did tell him I have someone dearly important to me. I feel ill hiding our love, but I don’t know how to approach it. I can only fervently hope he doesn’t hate me when I gather the courage to tell him. Shaela at times scolds me, saying Marek would love you and would be thrilled to have another figure in the family.

But old habits die hard.

I hear from Cassandra that you’ll be making camp at Redcliffe soon. I await your reply.

Your Heart.

 

_The letter is delivered without difficulty._

 

**++**

 

My Love,

I have little time, so this letter will be short.

I wish I could congratulate Marek on his new year. But I have news that dampen such festivities—for that I am sorry.

We lost at Nigel’s Point and lost control of the pass. Solas’s rumored small army is much larger than anticipated. We have been trying to stay ahead, but now I know he’s been two steps ahead the whole time. Our armies are suffering and it took us all we had to keep Stone-Bear Hold.

I wish I could do more.

I’ll be heading for Val Royeaux soon, stopping at Emprise du Lion.

Always,

Ry’del

 

_The letter is delivered._

 

**++**

 

My Love,

Val Royeaux buzzes with praises for the Pavus house. I hear you prevented a coup and now has Archon Radonis under your thumb. I say such rumors please me and makes my skin tingle. Your political dominance lights me on fire as much as your physical prowess does.

Apparently, you’ve also declared a call for truce between Tevinter and Nevarra! Well, whatever it is you did, it seems there are citizens rallying to the cause.

After Val Royeaux, the Inquisition leaders will be reorganizing at Tevinter. Are you sure you want our meeting to be at the Pavus Manor? Won’t people talk?

Either way, I’ll be heading to Tevinter a few days ahead of the rest. Perhaps we will find ourselves some time alone.

Give my regards to Shaela’s union. I hear her new husband is very handsome.

Eagerly awaiting our reunion,

Ry’del

 

_The letter is delivered. Dorian beams._

 

**++**

 

 _Amatus_ ,

The Pavus Manor is hosting a feast for old friends. It’s a flimsy story, but it does give the message than at least one Tevinter house is in allegiance with the Inquisition. I’ll see to inviting other Tevinter houses to the feast _—_ the Rosenhain's are a strong possibility (I really like them). There is a chance we can build some alliances as well.

I’m so _excited_ for our reunion. Travel safely and quickly.

One last thing, bring a present—perhaps a fire charm. You’ll be in time for Marek’s new year—he’s twelve, can you believe it! It was like only yesterday that he was nine.

And yes, Shaela’s new husband is _quite_ handsome.

Your Heart

 

_Letter delivered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> Elf, a Stranger  
> Marek has questions and meets Lavellan.


	5. Pavus, an Orphan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek feels his status as a Pavus threatened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of NSFW? I can't really write love scenes... so... you're stuck with that I guess.
> 
> Also, even though I read through it again and fixed things, the piece is still largely unedited. I'll fix it in the morning--I always write when I'm half asleep.

**|| Pavus, an Orphan**

**|| Twelve.**

 

There’s a strangeness in Father’s face as he strolls in during breakfast.

“One’s perspective on mornings can change drastically when one’s mood is high, am I right?” He says, ruffling my hair as he passes by to sit in his seat. He’s uncharacteristically...smiley. “You’re starting your specialization training is starting today. Do you have an inkling of what that may be?”

“Not yet,” I reply, dropping my eyes. This isn’t my favorite topic of conversation. Father had decided, last year, to have me start learning the different specializations in magic. Never too young! He had said. I’m grateful he isn’t pushing me towards a specific one, but I somehow feel it would disappoint him if I didn’t chose to become a necromancer.

Father begins his meal, giving compliments to Shaela’s cooking. “There’s no rush,” he says to me. “You need to understand yourself well to choose. That takes time.”

“How long did it take you to decide on Necromancy,” I ask, handing my plate to Shaela—I started my meal before Father, since Vinaeres wanted me to meet her by the plaza’s fountain. Perhaps I can distract him with a story about himself.

“Let me think,”  Father smiles, a hand to his chin. “I was a teenager then, older than you. Perhaps sixteen or so. And it was all very exciting. I read up on the Mortalitasi, begged my father to let me go to Nevarra—he never did, and had a morbid curiosity on the dead.”

I did not care for dead bodies, and the thought brought a sickness in my stomach. “Did you make dead bodies come alive?”

Father thinks for a moment, “not flesh and bone. Just spirits—occasionally someone accidentally summons a demon.”

“Wasn’t it scary?” I am aware my face pales with this topic.

“No, not really,” Father says, giving a look that told me he already knew this isn’t something to talk about during meal time. “But this is not really breakfast conversation is it?”

I shake my head, glad we’re no longer speaking of spirits and dead bodies—although I admit I was the one who started it.

“Alright,” Father sighs, “it’s time for you to go. I’ve asked your teachers to refrain from having you use your fire spells. Please remind them, Marek.”

“I will.” I say, giving Father a curt nod before darting out of the dining room.

 

**++**

 

Dorian is so eager. He paces the foyer, awaiting his lover. How dare he make him wait so long! Doesn’t he know how _tired_ Dorian is of waiting? He paces some more, muttering to himself. His heart is beating so fast—nervous and excited about the prospect of seeing his beloved _Amatus_.

Then, there is a knock on the door—three loud knocks. Dorian thought he would jump out of his skin! He calms himself, but it doesn’t matter, his hands shake as he lifts the latch on the door and opens it.

And there _he_ is. His _Amatus_ , as radiant as the sun and Dorian feels blind. Ry’del looks so familiar and so different all at once and Dorian’s heart feels confused. Does he hug him, kiss him, fuck him?

His _Amatus_ answers him with a gentle hand to his cheek. “Hello, My Love.” Ry’del whispers. Soon, they are in each other’s arms. Blast all those nosy enough to leer and watch from afar with their noses raised high. Dorian will hug, kiss, and fuck his lover—all of Tevinter be damned, watch if they must!

Dorian kisses Ry’del all over, “how I’ve missed you.” He mutters, his face wet from happy tears he didn’t know he had shed. “How I love you.”

“I know,” Ry’del whispers in reply. “Me too.”

 

**++**

 

Ry’del’s eyes are closed, he moans so passionately, it sends shivers running down Dorian’s spine. “Harder,” Ry’del’s eyes flow with tears, and for a moment, Dorian wants to stop—to wipe the tears. But Ry’del protests, leaning down to kiss him roughly on the lips. “Hard— _ah!—_ er…”

Dorian does as he is told and grinds into his lover, making sure Ry’del could feel his entire length. It’s been too long, but it feels as good as before—if not better. The sound of Dorian's cock ceaselessly slamming into his lover, the moans that it elicits from Ry’del—it’s all so _lewd_ and it makes him  _hard_.

“I mi— _ha_ —missed this so— _ah!_ —much. It feels good,” Ry’del whimpers, “Touch me.”

Dorian can’t stand it anymore, he pulls out, earning a gasp from Ry’del and a quizzical look. As much as Dorian enjoyed having his lover ride him in such an eager manner, Dorian enjoyed having Ry’del on his back even more. Something about having his _Amatus’s_ legs spread wide for him feels enthralling.

“Like this?” Dorian touches him all over and puts his mouth on his lovers cock. Dorian lavishes in his role, watching for the little signs of what his lover likes and what he doesn’t. Even without having have done this for year, Dorian remembers what makes Ry’del squirm. Where to lick, where to suck, what to touch. Soon, Ry’del comes undone, Dorian pulls away, watching seed and spit spill on Ry’del’s belly.

Then, it is Dorian’s turn. He fucks into Ry’del with a familiar passion. “If you get hard again,” Dorian says between breaths, “why don’t we go for another round?” Ry’del says nothing, but there is a smile on his lips. When they finish, Dorian will ask him what it means.

“I’m close, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispers, he feels delirious with pleasure. “I’m close.”

“Let me feel you, My Love.” Ry’del replies, hooking his legs on Dorian’s waist. “Don’t spill a drop.” The _things_ that come out of Ry'del's mouth baffles Dorian at times, but it entices him so much. Dorian feels himself filling his lover, he gasps and shudders. When he pulls out, he watches his cum drip out, satisfied.

“My heart is so full,” Ry’del whispers, pulling Dorian down with his good arm.

“Was this welcome to your liking?” Dorian jokes, his head rested on Ry’del’s chest.

“It is,” Ry’del says quietly.

Sleep soon takes Dorian, but he hugs Ry’del so tightly, fearful this may just be a dream.

 

**++**

 

Vinaeres is wise and charming—but at times, she can be cruel. Father has told me that nobles can be the worst people in the world. They didn’t understand how people really are at times and there were times nobles didn’t even _know_ they were being cruel. Like now.

“I’m just stating facts, Marek,” she sighs, irritation in her voice.

“If I’ve got Pavus as my last name, and my _father_ already publicized I’m his heir, why not?!” I am hurt by her words.

“I like you and I think you’re a good person, but you can’t be the Pavus heir, not _really_ .” She puts her hands out, as if I was missing something obvious. “No matter what you do, you're _not_ a Pavus. In the eyes of nobles, you’re just an orphan who came into fortunate circumstances.”

I fume, but Father told me I needed to control my emotions, so I do my best. “I really want to hit you right now, Vinaeres.” I yell, pointing at her. The surprise on her face does little to appease my anger.

“Like you can!” She taunts and it sets me off. I jump at her, I don’t care that she’s a girl. Vinaeres is screaming, she’s taller than me, and older. So when she kicks her leg out, it hits me right on my stomach, shoving me back. It hurt, but I ignore it. I scream and attack her one more time.

“Stop it!” A teacher rushes to us, pulling me away from her, when I don’t, he freezes me in place. “Stop it.” He repeats, huffing angrily.

“I told you, Marek! Magister Pavus isn’t even _married_! And he can’t because of you! Who wants to marry an old man with a child!” She yells at me, crying at her scraped knee.

I stick my tongue out at her, “I hope your wound festers!” Vinaeres is a hypocrite! She had told me once she thought Father was handsome and she would marry him one day.

“STOP. IT.” The teacher roars now and this makes both of us quiet. He points at me, “how dare you attack another student during my class. And you—” he turns to Vinaeres, “you’re older, you are suppose to set an example, instead, you’re picking fights with your underclassmen. Pitiful.” He unfreezes me and points to one of the school’s towers—the Headmistress’ office. “Your parents will hear about this dreadful display.”

As we’re marched up the tower, all I could think of is how disappointed Father will be.

 

**++**

 

Marek comes home sullen, his eyes puffy. He’d been crying, Dorian knows this immediately. A panic wells in him. “Marek, what is it? What happened?!”

“I got into a fight,” Marek mumbles, eyes firmly on the ground. Dorian’s stomach ache.

“What _happened,_ ” Dorian asks, stopping Marek from going straight to his bedroom. Dorian must be firm, he wants to give Marek space, but this child looks pitiful and dejected.

The child keeps his eyes averted. “Someone told me I was just an orphan and I can never be a Pavus.” He shifts his weight around, trying to hide his face. “So I attacked her and she scraped her knee.”

“Did you feel better after you hurt her?” Dorian knows he’s not being quite fair. Being told you didn’t belong is painful, he knows it all too well. But Marek should understand revenge isn't always the best answer.

Marek looks up, brows knitted together. “No,” he says, but Dorian can hear the disbelief in his tone. “She said I can’t be a Pavus just because you say so. Because I’m from the Free Marches and you’re from Tevinter and those are different things!” His voice becomes louder and louder as he speaks.

“Marek,” Dorian is quieter with his voice. He knows how Marek’s emotions work, but what he says also hurts. “You are a Pavus. Nothing will change that. I don’t care if you’re different, you _are_ a Pavus. Understand that Marek.” Dorian tries to hug him.

“No!” Marek shoves Dorian away. “My name is Marek Asker. I’m not a Pavus and stop trying to tell me I am! You should have kicked me out when I lied to you the first time!” Marek is shouting, Shaela comes running into the foyer, a panic on her face.

Dorian puts a hand out, “Shaela, please prepare some warm milk.” He says gently. Shaela nods and quickly walks towards the kitchen. Dorian focuses his attention back to Marek. “You don’t mean that, Marek.” Cautiously, Dorian reaches for the child’s arm, steadying it there to see if the child would reject his touch. When Marek doesn’t, Dorian pulls him into an embrace. “You don’t mean that do you? You’re my son. You’re a Pavus, Marek.” Dorian smooths Marek’s hair rocking him from side to side. Marek calms down considerably, and Dorian is able to wipe his nose with his robe’s sleeve.

“But, Vinaeres said you can’t get a wife because of me—I wanted to tell her that you do and you talk about them a lot.” Marek says in between breaths and hiccups. Dorian is taken aback by the statement. He thinks of two things: First, the Rosenhain girl has quite the tongue, and secondly—!

“I have a wife?” Dorian pulls away from Marek to look at his face—still puffy and raw from crying. “Who told you that? Did Shaela tell you that?” Confusion dances on his face.

“No, she comes here all the time, and you talk quietly together.” Marek says, “you never introduce me to her.”

Dorian is utterly confused now. “Marek, who are you talking about?”

“The woman! With all the metal all around her!” He sounds exasperated. Marek’s frustration returns as tears. “You’re not telling me about her because she didn’t like that I became your heir.”

“That’s—no, that’s not true.” Dorian tries his best to assure the child, but his mind is distracted on figuring out who Marek is talking about. Then it hits him, “Maevaris? Are you talking about Maevaris?” Marek says nothing and Dorian knows why. It is a stupid question.

“No, Maevaris isn’t my wife. She’s a friend.” Dorian says quietly. How the Maker makes coincidences align so perfectly. “We’ll talk about what happened later...but I think, right now is the time you meet someone important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, I said that this chapter is going to be where Marek and Lavellan meet, but as I was writing, I decided to not do that and do that in the next chapter. So...


	6. Elf, A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek meets the Inquisitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took me forever. 
> 
> Edited once.

**|| Elf, A Stranger**

**|| Twelve.**

There is warm milk on the table, Shaela pacing the kitchen nervously as I come in.

“Shaela, please keep Marek company.” Father orders, squeezing my hand before walking out of the kitchen, hands wrung together.

Shaela brings her arms around my shoulders. I never noticed how warm she is, perhaps the child in her belly had something to do with it. “Drink up, Master Marek,” she says softly, using a sleeve to wipe whatever remnants of tears I had on my face. She pushes my hair back several times, like she’s petting a cat. I find comfort in it.

Father comes back, he’s muttering small things to someone I can’t see—then they step into the light. An elf with wide eyes look at me and he sits across from me, and father sits next to him. He looks suspicious. A little _scary._

"Marek," he begins, I could hear the nerves in his voice. "This is Ry'del Lavellan."

I almost balk at revelation, "the Inquisitor." There was a lot of talk about him. Even now, after Corypheus and his archdemons. Father’s friends have talked about him—the biggest defense against Fen’Harel. I should have known it is him at first glance. A pale Dalish elf with white hair, eerily golden eyes, and a missing arm. The rumors of description is strangely accurate—rumors normally aren’t.  

Admittedly, I admire him. The Inquisitor was blessed by the Maker to defeat an incredible evil, yet everyone didn't believe him. He had to search through all of Thedas to secure alliances—at least, that's what the tales say. Also, what's not to admire? Of course I'd think nothing but good things of the Inquisitor when Father fought alongside him. But such praises can only be whispered in secret in Tevinter. The Inquisitor isn't very welcome here. To have the Inquisitor in the manor is an event I felt nervous about, so I ask, "What's he doing here?"

Father looks back and forth between myself and the Inquisitor, those nerves of his now completely visible on his face. That is until the Inquisitor put a hand on Father's arm. It disappears in a flash and I feel strange.

"Hello Marek," he greets me, smiling gently. "I have known your father for a long time. We fought against Corypheus together."

"I know," I say, my tone is more snappish than I expect. But I've had a hard day, so I forgive myself.

The Inquisitor laughs—soft and airy. Father glances at me, worry still on his face. "I should have known your father has told you all about that at this point."

"Yes." I feel a sneaking suspicion now. Father is acting strangely and the elf—I don't care if he's the Inquisitor now—is overtly friendly for my liking.

"Marek," it's Father who talks now. I could tell the matter is serious, so I brace myself...all the worst scenarios running through my head.

 

**++**

 

"Marek," Dorian repeats. He runs a hand through his hair, steeping them in front of him. He places them on the table. "Ry'del and I..." There is a lump in his throat, "we have been together through all the dangers you could think of. We grieved together, laughed together, cried together, celebrated together."

Dorian shifts in his chair, "and when you spend time with a person, you form a friendship. And this bond could be so strong it..." he glances at Ry'del. "It becomes more than just _friendship_."

He sighs, "what I'm trying to say is,” Dorian guards himself and immediately regrets it. Would Marek be so intolerant? “What I’m trying to say is, Ry'del...is a man I love." He watches Marek's face, thinking the worst. Dorian’s breath catches and when he can no longer take the silence, he turns to his _amatus_ , searching comfort in those eyes like suns. Ry’del’s face is soft, encouraging.

The air is string at the verge of snapping—then Marek speaks.

"Is he your husband?" The child's voice is steady and serious. It is a surprising question, Dorian thinks, but also logical.

“No,” Dorian is surprised at how much more painful that sounds out loud. Do boys of twelve know about lovers?

Marek is still stony, he avoids Ry’del’s face. “Does Shaela know?”

“About...us?” Dorian is trying to be careful, but he knows he’s saying all the wrong things.

“What else?” Marek doesn’t give space for nonsense. He wants clear answers.  

Dorian takes a deep breath. Marek is only twelve, yet he shows bouts of childish maturity. “Yes, she does.”

Marek looks between Dorian and Ry’del. He stands. “It was nice meeting you Inquisitor Lavellan, but it’s time for me to go to bed.” He doesn’t spare a glance towards Dorian and starts for his room.

“It was nice meeting you, Marek,” Ry’del replies.

A sickness in Dorian’s stomach clings like honey as he watches Marek turn a corner to the hallway and out of sight. He buries his face into his hands. “That’s how it is, I suppose.”

 

**++**

 

It is Shaela who is brave enough to come to my room. I let her in when she knocks. I refuse to be rude to women, even if I want to. She says nothing as she enters and simply sighs. I stalk back to my desk, writing down recipes for potions I want to remember.

“What do you want?” I demand after a while, glaring at her.

Shaela sits at my bed, “ooh!” She suddenly gasps and I turn to her, worried. Shaela has her hands to her belly, eyes wide.

“What is it?” I walk towards her. “Is it time? Should I call someone?”

“No, Marek,” she smiles at me, holding out her hand. I take it. “I’m fine.” She pulls my hand towards her belly, just below her breast, and press my hand against it. Her belly moves just so and I pull my hand back.

“Why is it doing that,” I ask, slightly horrified.

Shaela laughs, “it’s the baby, Marek.” She asks for my hand again and I give it to her reluctantly. I feel her belly again, and again, it moves. I leave my hand there this time. “Sometimes it moves around inside and wakes me up at night.”

“Does it hurt?” I try to imagine how that would feel like.

“Not at all,” she answers. “But it’s surprising. It makes me realize I’m carrying something alive inside.”

I purse my lips and go grab my chair to sit in front of her, “will it be a boy or a girl?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She says, rubbing her belly. “Either way, you can be like a big brother soon.”

“You’re not leaving,” I ask. I had always thought she would only be around until she gave birth. She’d be too busy with her new baby to come take care of my Father and I. It was what happened to Vinaeres’s nanny, and even though Shaela is much better, I didn’t think she would be an exception.

“No, I like it here too much.” She pats the space next to her, and I sit. Shaela brings her arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards her. “You haven’t been yourself,” she says this as a fact, so I don’t deny it.

“You’re upset about the Inquisitor.” She states.

I think about it, and I know my answer, so I tell her. “Maybe.”

“Ah,” she smiles, holding me tighter. “You’re upset at your father.”

I didn’t have to think, “yes.”

“Do you want to talk?” Shaela’s voice is quiet, respectful, and soft. I thank the Maker for Shaela. She had always been so kind to me and she always knew what to say. She never pushed for me to talk and when she senses I wanted to be alone, she would leave. This time, I _truly_ appreciate her.

“Yes.”

“Go on then,” she rocks me side to side.

I take a deep breath, knowing this would take me a while. Shaela rubs my arm to encourage me. I think how she will be a great mother.

Then, I begin.

 

**++**

 

The Pavus manor is silent. Dread makes itself known at every turn and Dorian realizes he needs more that his _amatus’_ presence to feel happy. Without Marek’s approval, he would have to make a choice. One he knows he could never make— _but Ry’del will make it for him_. Dorian is fearful of this.

“He’ll come around,” His _Amatus_ says in quiet moment.

Dorian nods, “I know.” And they both know he’s lying.

However, as days pass, little by little, Marek begins talking to Dorian again. It’s not as much as they did in the past, but it is a start. Marek even starts talking to Ry’del—even if it is as simple as asking to pass the salt. Still, Dorian knows this simply won’t do.

“There are a few days left before our friends come,” Dorian starts during dinner. He tries to think of cautious words, watching both his _A_ _matus_ and Marek.

“Yes,” Ry’del answers slowly, he puts his knife and fork down—attuned as always, Dorian thinks.

“I’ll be busy today,” he looks at Marek, “with all the preparations.” This time, both look at Dorian with a quizzical look. Marek has learned the habit of raising his brow when suspicious.

“Yes,” Ry’del narrows his eyes. It’s a question now.

“I think this is a fine time for you and Marek to get to know each other.” Dorian turns to Marek, “you could show him your magic.” As soon as he says this, he knows this is a terrible idea.

“No,” His _A_ _matus_ says bluntly. “You’ll be much busier when the guests arrive, I think it’s better if _you_ spend time with Marek.”

Dorian notices how Marek’s eyes light up at the suggestion and makes a note to remind himself to thank Ry’del later.

“Can you?” Marek props himself up on his seat and Dorian’s heart soars. It had been a while since he had taken Marek out.

Dorian reaches next to him, discretely tugging at the hem of Ry’del’s sleeve under the table—a silent thank you. Ry’del gives him a small smile. “Yes, if Ry’del will take over my duties for me.”

Now, Marek’s attention is on the elf. But he still avoids eye contact. “Of course,” Ry’del says. And Marek, for the first time in a while, gives a great smile.

“I’ll get ready,” Marek’s excitement is infectious, and Dorian has to laugh. Marek runs out of the kitchen, pulling Shaela behind him.

Dorian leans towards his lover and peppers kisses on his lips. “Thank you,” another kiss.

“Don’t forget to talk to him.” Ry’del simply says, caressing Dorian’s cheek.

It would be awful, Dorian thinks, to choose between these two people he loves so much.

 

**++**

 

Shaela takes me to the market sometimes. She teaches me how to pick good fruit and vegetables. Sometimes, she buys me a pastry from the baker. Father would mostly take me to parties with noble people. I hate those, because I feel their stares on me. It reminds me of what Vinaeres said, so I shake my head. Today will be different. I wonder where we will go. With the talk of war, Tevinter becomes more dangerous everyday and it makes Father so busy. I know he’ll want to talk to me about the Inquisitor. I don’t know if I’ll be ready for that, but it doesn't matter right now.

“Shaela, do you think he’ll take me to the Antivan bakery, if I ask him?” I tug on Shaela’s arm. She ruffles my hair—it messes up my hair, but I like the feeling.

“Give him plenty of smiles and I’m sure he will.” Shaela giggles.

“Come on,” she opens my closet. “You should dress nicely.”

I know exactly what I want to wear. Father had given me a robe that matches his. It’s black, with gold trimmings and the Pavus crest embroidered on the sleeve. I want everyone to know I’m a Pavus—maybe Vinaeres will see, and that should shut her up.

It takes a while to put it on—even with Shaela helping me—but when I do, I feel my face warm. For some reason, I think it’s a little embarrassing.

“Is it too much?” I look at myself in the mirror, it makes me look taller and powerful—and I’m not any of those things. Shaela comes up behind me and fixes my hair. She smooths down the waves and pins them down.

“You look so handsome,” Shaela looks at me through the mirror. “Your father is going to be surprised!”

Satisfied, I nod and Shaela kisses me on the cheek. “Go, your father is waiting.”

 

**++**

 

Dorian can’t help but smile looking at Marek by his side dressed in the black robes tailored to fit him especially. The thought had hit him one day, Dorian remembers, wanting to get Marek official Pavus robes. The child, admittedly looked good in it and seemed happy to wear it.

Ry’del had seen and encouraged Dorian to change into his—even if it would take a while. He thanked his _A_ _matus_ with a kiss when Marek isn’t looking and they set off.

They reach the plaza by carriage and Marek leaps down excitedly. He tugs at Dorian’s robe and points at the Antivan bakery Shaela had been talking about.

“They’re really nice,” Marek says, walking in front. “Sometimes they give us more than what we buy. And Shaela gives it to me to ea—” He stops suddenly and turns towards Dorian, a sheepish look on his face. Dorian had rules about sweets. “I mean, nothing.”

Dorian laughs, “Does Shaela spoil you with sweets? Even though _you_ eat all the sweets at home and leave none for me?”

Marek purses his lips and glances at his feet, “is she in trouble?”

 _The gall!_ Dorian hides a smile, “more like _you’re_ in trouble!” He reaches for Marek’s hand. “But I’ll let it go if you save some for me next time, deal?”

The fact that Marek hesitates to accept this makes Dorian lose it. He laughs, uncharacteristically in front of all these people who saw him as the sharp-tongued, clever, and snakey man he has painted himself to be. Such things are in the past, Dorian thinks. “You’d rather be in trouble than share?!”

The look on Marek’s face says it all, but finally, he relents, “just _one_?”

“Just one,” Dorian pinches his cheek. “Let’s go get some right now.”

When they enter the shop, the air sweetens and the woman behind the counter smiles at them. “Hello, Master Marek!” she leans over the counter to put a finger to his cheek. She looks up at Dorian and back to Marek, “I see you’ve brought your father in this time!”

“Good afternoon,” Dorian greets, bowing slightly.

The woman bows back, “Good afternoon Lord Pavus. Your son comes here _all_ the time and gobbles up all my wares!”

“They must be delicious then,” It’s polite conversation, Dorian feels stuffy in the room, even with all the talk about sharing earlier, he isn’t a big fan of anything too sweet.

“Only the best!” She must have sensed this, as she gives Dorian an apologetic smile and turns to Marek. “What would you like this time?”

“Picarones,” Marek says, pointing at the ring like dessert drizzled in a sugar syrup. “I want one.”

“Alright,” she fishes the dessert out and wraps one end with pastry paper. “Lord Pavus, would you fancy a bite?”

He looks at the display and decides on one that doesn’t look too sweet, “these please.” He points at a pastry that seems to just be dusted with powdered sugar.

“Tawa Tawas,” the woman smiles, “good choice!”

Marek begs Dorian to buy an assorted box for when they go home. Dorian thinks of Ry’del and agrees. He has the woman hold it for him and they’ll come by later in the afternoon to pick it up when they’re ready to leave. He wants to spend more time with Marek.

They sit under the shade finishing their pastries (Dorian is pleased that his choice _was_ good), it isn’t hot, but the sun is bearing down on the plaza—enough to make Dorian second guess his choice of clothing for the day. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing does at the moment. The last time he and Marek had gone out for fun was months ago and even so, it was for the purpose of buying Marek clothes for the coming school year.

“There is a shop just down there,” Dorian points, “that specializes on staffs. Perhaps we can buy you a new one?”

Marek’s eyes widen, “Really?” Dorian feels that powerful energy Marek harbors and he braces himself just a bit.

“Yes,” Dorian says, “it’s time, don’t you think? We can get a new potion recipe book for you to study. What do you say?”

The child bristles. Dorian could swear he sees mana emanating from Marek. “I want to!”

 

**++**

 

The shop has a lot of amazing things. I try looking for a staff like Father’s, as much as possible, I want to resemble him more and more. I don’t want anyone questioning I am a Pavus. When I ask Father about this, he says his staff is an old one, created especially for him and tailored to his specialization—necromancy. I shudder. I still don’t want to think about that.

I give up on it for now, when I decide on what I want to do, I’ll ask Father for one that matches his instead. Or, I’ll make it myself if I have to. In the end, Father is the one that chooses for me. It’s a black staff with the head of a snake at the top. The mouth is open and a red jewel sits in its mouth.

It looks scary, but Father says it would help with focusing my magic. Father also picks out a potions book and says I am to start learning those as well.

I wonder if this has anything to do with Fen’Harel. At school, we are being taught more aggressive magic that boosts our defenses—even Father secretly teaches me more advanced magic. Vinaeres says it would help if Fen’Harel attacks Tevinter. I don’t believe her, but I practice everyday anyway.

Father pays for our things, he has them sent to the manor, it would be easier, he says, than carrying it everywhere.

When the sun strats to set, Father tells me our carriage will arrive soon. I feel a little disappointed that the day is coming to an end. I remind him to pick up the sweets from the Antivan bakery and I try convincing Father to split a pastry, be he says no.

As we walk back to the plaza, the fountain lights start to flicker and I get excited. I have only seen the fountain at night one time. I was with the Rosenhain family, and there was a festival. There had been loud music then, not anymore, but it is still as exciting as I remember. As the water dances, colors light up and makes it look like the water had the color of rainbows. I run to the edge of it and push my sleeves up. Vinaeres and I did this all the time and I dip my hands in the water. I look up at Father. “It’s cold,” I tell him, moving my hands to splash the water. “Try it, Father.” I say, but then remember that Father hates things like these. He once told me not to drink from the flowing fountains at school—even though everyone does it.

But Father does. He pushes his sleeves up and reaches down to touch the water. Then, he flicks water towards me and grins, “it _is_ cold!”

I make a face and splash him with a scoop of water. Father moves, but I get him, soaking the side of his robes. Part of his hair gets wet and a strand is on his face. It’s _really_ funny, and I can’t help my giggling. Father huffs and splashes me too.

“My hair!” I yell, trying to twist away. When it droops it front of my face, Father starts laughing.

“Now, we’re the same!” He pulls me in a hug and ruffles my hair. I wonder if Shaela will be upset seeing it all messed up after she worked hard on it. But it doesn’t matter.

People are beginning staring, watching us play with the water. A few children joined in too, and some adults. I think mostly, people are shocked. Shaela had once said that Father did very important work—would they think less of him when he’s playing around with me like this? I feel a little sick to my stomach, so I pull Father aside. The plaza is filled with the sounds of all the other children laughing, but now I’m worried.

“People are watching,” I tell him. I pull on his sleeve until he bends down and wipe droplets of water from his face. “Father, they’re all watching we need to stop.” I hope he hears the insistence in my voice. I think he does, because his smile goes away, but then it comes back right away. He pushes my hair away from my face.

“It’s alright, they’re just watching because we’re having so much fun.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “But we can stop if you really want to.”

I look around the plaza, I still feel some of their eyes on us. “I want to stop.”

And we do. Father and I find a quieter spot to sit in as we wait and it’s getting much darker now.

 

**++**

 

Dorian feels so blessed, so lucky, how could he have someone in his life who cared in this way—so young and understanding of the circumstances. He feels guilty—this, he knows. He feels guilty that Marek feels the need to conform to what Tevinter finds acceptable. It breaks his heart, but he will try his damndest to chip away this belief little by little.

“Did you have fun today?” He asks the child, who is shivering now from the soft breeze. Dorian hugs the boy close.

Marek nods, “yes.” He has the box of sweets on his lap, and Dorian wonders if Marek is thinking of eating it now. _That_ is another thing to note, he thinks. He can’t have Marek getting spoiled too much. He would have to talk to Shaela. “I want to come here again.” Marek kicks his legs up, snuggling at Dorian's side.

“I agree,” Dorian sighs. Then, he thinks hard, because he wants to bring it up and he thinks Marek knows as well. Dorian calms himself, letting the silence between them fill, then he says, “maybe we can take Ry’del with us too.”

Marek says nothing for what feels like hours, then he shrugs, “if you want.” Dorian knows Marek would rather not.

“Do you...is it strange that I love a man?” This hurts Dorian, but knows it is necessary.

Marek buries his face in Dorian’s robes. “No,” his voice is muffled. “Vinaeres’s brother likes boys—I saw him kissing another boy. You do stuff like that with the Inquisitor too.”

“Oh,” Dorian thought he had been careful. “Then, do you not like him?”

“I don’t like him.” Marek says, still buried in robes and voice still muffled.

This shocks Dorian—he didn’t think Marek would be so blunt.

 _What do I do, Amatus_ … _?_

Dorian begins to speak, but Marek interrupts him, “I see your face.”

“My face?”

Marek looks up briefly and his face is streaked with tears. “You got a weird look on your face when he arrived—like you’re _really_ happy.”

“And...this upsets you? Why?” Dorian has tried to make sure Marek speaks how he feels. It is a way of not bottling his emotions up too much—that and Dorian wants to make sure Marek would be far more stable than he ever was as a child.

“I don’t want to say.” Marek says and Dorian can see that it’s a final decision.

So, he compromises. “Will you tell me when you’re ready?”

Marek nods.

“Listen,” Dorian says, voice almost a whisper. He needs to say it, because _now_ he is sure. “You’re right. I feel _very_ happy when he’s here because I love him _so_ much. Do you understand this?” Dorian glances at Marek and the child’s lips quiver, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but he nods. “He makes me stronger and better and I can’t imagine the rest of my life without him. Whether you end up accepting him or not, I will always love him. Do you understand this?”

Marek rubs his eyes and nods, a frown on his face.

“ _But_ , I love _you_ so much and _you_ make me stronger and better and I can’t imagine the rest of my life without _you_ . If you’re afraid of a choice you think I’ll be forced to make, don’t be.” Dorian wipes Marek’s face. “I love you both so much I will _never_ make a choice that puts the both of you in a position that would hurt you.” Dorian can’t make it clear enough, so he kisses the top of Marek’s head. “Marek, do you understand _this_?”

Marek cries, “yes,” he says in between sobs.

 

**++**

 

Dorian had a long talk with his _A_ _matus_ , about Marek. Ry’del, who says he is bad at words, said just the right things and they had a late night. He feels the soreness in his hips and wonders if Ry’del is feeling any better, Ry’del always did have better endurance. But when Dorian wakes up the next morning, his _A_ _matus_ isn't by his side.

When Dorian goes down to the kitchen for a drink, he finds Ry’del sitting at the breakfast table, mouth full with an Antivan pastry. He lifts his hand in greeting and hands Dorian a piece of paper. Dorian smiles at Marek’s beautiful writing:

_Inquisitor,_

_I saved you a pastry. There are two in the box. Please leave the other for Father. Don’t give it to Shaela, she can’t eat them because of her baby._

_Marek Pavus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I remember someone having a headcanon that Antiva is Spanish/South American so, I just took that and ran with it.  
> +I don't quite want Marek to reveal why he doesn't like the Inquisitor. I mean, we can venture a guess, but I want to test Dorian's ability to do the hard part of fatherhood.  
> +Also, FORESHADOWING for the next few chapters??? Not everything is safe.  
> +There was originally a scene where the Inquisitor gifts Marek with a rune for the staff. Buuut I took it out. It will make it in somewhere though, because the Inquisitor IS carrying a rune around.  
> +Oh and yes, Ry'del Lavellan is my Inquisitor. I normally don't like putting a name to characters that have high customization to allow readers to place their own Inquisitors in there, but writing wise, it was too taxing.  
> +On that note, if you ARE interested in Ry'del Lavellan, you should hope over to "Histories of Lavellan" (here is a link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7834858/chapters/17886022) and "Chronicles of the Trevelyan" (here is a link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11434323/chapters/25622271) because that gives some back story (it ain't done tho).
> 
>  
> 
> +Next Chapter: Feast, A Warning; The companions arrive, they have bad news.


	7. Feast, A Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companions arrive, it's down to business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two chapters in a few days? Well, hopefully I can get up to chapter 10 this week as I've written out the plot lines for those chapters. Ooh boy. The next chapter is probably one of the ones I am looking forward to write.

**|| Feast, A Warning**

**|| Twelve.**

 

Days pass and the sun is hot. Companions trickle in little by little. Cassandra is the first, greeting Dorian as she does, with a cheeky smile and a jest. Dorian responds of course, with the same cheeky smile and jest—but he adds to it. He teases her—rumor has it she’s been spending time with Bull. Cassandra only huffs, but her face reddens and it’s enough for Dorian.

“You’ve got your own rumors, Dorian.” She warns. “Don’t make me say them.” Dorian puts his hands up in defeat—he will talk to her later, when she’s settled and rested.

Varric comes a few days later, older with eyes that has seen too much. They say little things to each other—a laugh here and there. Dorian wants to ask how Kirkwall is doing, but he has heard the rumors, such conversation would not be pleasant. It’s Ry’del who talks to him, in whispers, and condolences are given. Varric will say what he wants when he’s ready.

When Bull arrives, Sera is with him—they’ve been wreaking chaos in the east with their unusual battle tactics and they are claiming fame from it. Dorian ignores how Bull leans towards Cassandra to whisper something in her ear. When he pulls away, Cassandra hits him in the arm and Bull laughs. Sera says something else and Cassandra buries of her face in her hands.

The last to arrive is Cullen and Dorian playfully flirts with him. The Commander is so undoubtedly adorably bashful and Ry’del agrees.

“What beautiful hair—as always,” Dorian says and Cullen just laughs.

“Like a Golden Lion,” Ry’del would supply.

“Pretty as always.” Dorian smiles.

“Very pretty.”

When the Commander blushes, the game is won and the two move on.

Blackwall is occupied in Rivain, and regrets to inform them he could not make it. Vivienne sends her regards but Orlais is preparing itself with Vivienne doing her best to convince high-born mages to participate in the war. And no one expects Leliana to abandon her seat at the chantry.

Cole slinks through the manor—a shadow preferring to be hidden at all times. “Dorian, you’re very sparkly,” he says simply, and to Ry’del he says kind things before he disappears from sight. When Marek asks, Dorian tells him Cole is somewhere in the manor—and perhaps not to try and look for him as Dorian knows how fearful Marek is of spirits.  

The Pavus Manor is cheerful and loud. Marek is just as excited. He runs around, telling stories, showing off. A brief introduction with the companions and he gets along well with Bull and Cullen—the warriors. Ry’del tells Dorian he is jealous and Dorian tells him not to think too much about it. It’s dismissive, Dorian knows, but he knows Marek will come to enjoy his _Amatus’_ golden eyes, it would just take some time.

When all is settled, Dorian has Shaela usher Marek away.

“It’s all business, you’ll be bored. And you have your classes tomorrow.” Dorian puts a hand to his cheek.

“It’s not fair,” the child sulks, but he listens, dragging his heavy feet up to his room.

 

**++**

 

“So this little lady, jumps up on my shoulders— _stands_ —then starts firing her arrows! And in the meantime, I’m trying to get the war nug to not slip off the cliff!” Bull is loud, recounting a fresh battle just east of Nevarra.

“And it’s like—all the bad stuff, yeah—in a ball and they go poof!” Sera guffaws, food flying everywhere, “Gone! Dead! Deaded?”

“This girl,” Bull slaps Sera’s back and she jerks forward, spilling her drink—she wouldn’t mind, Dorian thinks, “kicks off and sends me careening off the cliff—the nug is screaming, _I’m_ screaming and Sera—”

“I give them full of it and—”

“Jumps off the cliff herself! They were so confused! No one knew what was happening and it worked!”

“Everything went boom and I, ladies and tits, stick the landing.” Sera stands on her chair and bows.    

The dining hall fills with laughter and cheers. Sera gives Bull a thumbs up and sits back down, eagerly finishing off a pheasant. But a fear sits in Dorian's stomach, he looks over to his _Amatus_ who seems to have sensed this.

“Nevarra isn’t too far away from here,” Ry’del—no, the _Inquisitor_ says absentmindedly and the hall quiets. It is a reminder, that they are now at war—the biggest Thedas will see. Even Dorian understands the difference between his lover, his _Amatus_ and _this_ elf who sits across from him. As the Inquisitor, Ry’del is different. He is confident and makes decisions for the good of the order. Dorian respects and admires it, but as his lover, he _hates_ it. He _loathes_ it. Too many times has the Inquisitor made decisions than put him in danger. In this war, Dorian knows it will happen again. He tries to brace himself for it, but it’s useless. It can’t be helped, but he will fight it.

“Solas has his army and many are flocking to him,” Ry’del puts his cup of wine down—a signal to start what it is they all came here to do. “Losing the pass at Nigel’s Point was the start, now we are hearing more news that Solas has reach in every point of Thedas.” He turns to Cullen.

Cullen stands, hands flat on the table. “The Arbor Wilds are overrun. It’s safe to say that is Solas’s base of operations.”

“Can we kick that shite in the balls at the Arbor Wilds, then,” Sera questions, the ugliest of frowns she has reserved for Solas. His betrayal didn’t surprise her, but it has hit her harder than she cares to admit.

Cassandra shakes her head, “there isn’t any leverage out there. It’s a fortified position.”

“Solas knows how we work, he knows our tactics—it would be more than difficult to fight him directly.” Ry’del sighs.

“We’re spread thin, but if we take control of choke points, we can shut down resources for them.” Cullen says.

“Gamordan Peaks, the Heartlands, and the landmass leading to Ferelden.” Cassandra pushes away the dishes in front of her and spreads open a map and points.

Dorian glances at Ry’del, focused on the map and they’re all talking—making plans and second by second, Dorian feels himself getting irritated. So he speaks.

“Bull and Sera fought off Solas’s army _east_ of Nevarra. That’s awfully close to Tevinter, and I don’t know about the rest of you who don’t live here, but I’m quite concerned about that.” He is snappish—curt. “If Solas is pushing through Nevarran defense, where does that put Tevinter?”

“Minrathous has a natural defense. Even Solas’s army will struggle with that.” Bull is trying to appease him, he knows this. But it doesn’t work. Dorian thinks of Marek—his _son_. He cannot let Tevinter fall.

“What? A bunch of bloody rocks that would give Fen’Harel’s army sore feet and twisted ankles?” Dorian is surprised at his use of the name—he had been so friendly with Solas, and now, Dorian is seeing him as the enemy. He thinks he feels anger, but he understands quickly it’s fear. Ugly images fills his head. A dead boy, with Marek’s face—but it can’t be him. Dorian won’t allow it. “ _Venhedis_ . I know Tevinter hasn’t been the most friendly of nations, but this is _my_ home. My _son_ lives here. That must mean something—please. We must get defense for Tevinter.” He ignores everyone else and looks at Ry’del—trying to bring out his _Amatus_.

But Ry’del is the Inquisitor through and through.

 _Amatus_ , _do not say what you will regret._

Ry’del’s face contorts into a mix of pain and sadness. Dorian knows the Inquisitor makes choices for the greater good.

“I—”  

“Before we continue,”  Varric interrupts. Dorian has almost forgotten he is here. He had been silent the whole evening. All attention is on him. “Perhaps this could solve things or make things worse.”

“Varric, what is it?” Ry’del is demanding.

When Varric looks at Dorian, eyes full of guilt and apologies, Dorian sinks to his chair. The worst is coming and Varric knows Dorian will not bear it.

“Solas has requested a meeting with the Inquisitor—without escort. As a friend and a former ally.” Varric doesn’t look at anyone, keeping his eyes on the table.

“Why would Solas ask you?” Dorian doesn’t think as he says this.

“Because he knows Ry’del would not trust him. _You_ would never deliver the message.” Varric retorts. He is right of course. Dorian would keep it a secret—harbor it and let it fester. “Inquisitor, he met with me in private—entered Kirkwall without an army, without soldiers, just him. He promises no harm will come of you.”

“I don’t like this,” Cassandra says, if the others agree they say nothing. “How do we know he’s not lying?”

“We don’t.” Bull shifts in his seat.

Ry’del is quiet, Dorian can see him think. Then—“where would the meeting be?”

Choices for the greater good.

Again, Varric glances at Dorian. “The Arbor Wilds.”

“No.” Dorian says immediately. “No, you can’t.”

Choices for the _greater good_.

“It’s risky and stupid. But I...trust Solas enough to stay true to his word. And if he doesn’t, it may rally more people against him.” Ry’del is stiff. Dorian wants to believe he’s mulling over the worst decision of his life.

“No.” Dorian repeats, louder. “Do not make me grieve again. _Amatus_ , _please_.”

 

**++**

 

It was the rainy season—thunder and lightning played in the skies all day and all night. In that stormy night, Dorian remembers. Ry’del insisted on a raid to rid Solas of his best scouts. Dorian had begged his _Amatus_ to take him along, but Ry’del refused.

“Rogues only,” he had said, taking Varric, Cole, and Sera with him. Such golden eyes never felt so dim and empty. Even his kisses meant nothing and Dorian ached.

“Come back and love me—swear it.” Dorian had said.

“I swear it—I’ll come back and love you until you could think of nothing else.” And with that Ry’del, his _Amatus_ disappeared, replaced by the Inquisitor who did what he needed.

Weeks passed and when they returned, his _Amatus_ was not with them. They weeped for their Inquisitor—dead, they had said. Stabbed and had fallen into the sea.

Dorian weeped for a lover.

But then, Ry’del returned months later—scarred and thin. The first thing Dorian did was touch him all over.

“This is not a dream,” Dorian muttered to himself.

“This is not a dream, my love.” Ry’del said, smiling.

 

**++**

 

I can feel the change in the air. It feels heavy and I quickly learn why. The Inquisitor is leaving. All I could think of is Father. How did he feel? Sad—I supposed. I think of things that may make him happy, but I cannot.

“How long will you be gone,” I ask, watching him pack his things. It had been strange to see the Inquisitor in my Father’s room, but it is normal now.

He gives me a smile—a sad, impatient one. “I don’t know.”

“What did Father say?” I say strongly.

“He doesn’t want me to leave, but I must.” He pauses, looking at me.

I nod, understanding. “You’re the Inquisitor,” I know now why Father always talk about his eyes—eerie, but they’re large, golden and sun-like. I look away. “You have many things to take care of.”

“Yes,” he simply says. “I cannot take care of your Father right now, so you’ll do it for me.”

“I do that for myself already,” I frown.

The Inquisitor laughs—it’s real this time. Bright and beautiful. “Then I have nothing to worry about.” I watch him tie his knapsack and fasten his spear to his person. He comes up to me, pats my head, and fishes something out of his pocket. “Here,” he stretches out his fist, waiting for me to extend my hand. When I do, he drops a jewel on my palm.

“What is this?” I inspect it—it looks like golden glass.

“A rune.” He says, smiling. “I heard you got a new staff. I thought you could have a rune to go with it. Ah, well, it’s not new. I had picked it up a long time ago to give to your Father, but seeing as you’re magic is so similar, I thought I’d give it to you. It helps with focus and control.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stick with politeness. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Marek.” He pats my head one more time.

I grip the rune in my fist as I watch the Inquisitor gather the last of his belonging. I think fast and hard. “Come back, whatever it is, come back.”

The Inquisitor’s smile disappears for a moment, “yes. I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I wanted in this chapter that didn't happen:  
> +Companion banter, but it would take up too much space.  
> +Krem  
> +Human Cole--I went for Spirit Cole instead, more flighty.  
> +More Dorian and Ry'del double teaming Cullen (uh...in a dialogue way)  
> +Sera and Bull shenanigans.  
> +Marek eavesdropping on feast convos--didn't happen because Shaela is a good nanny.
> 
>  
> 
> Next Chapter::::::::::Tevinter, A Home


	8. Tevinter, a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian tries to persuade the council and Marek learns new things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha. Okay. 
> 
> and sorry. I did one edit. will probably go back later this afternoon.

**|| Tevinter, a Home**

**|| Thirteen.**

 

_Amatus,_

I beg you. Write me.

Your Heart

 

_Letter is not received._

 

**++**

 

_Amatus,_

I grow weary.

What has happened to your promise?

I refuse to grieve.

Please, write me.

Your Heart

 

_Letter is not received._

 

**++**

 

_Amatus,_

Do you remember when we hurried away into the forest? You swept me away from the party and took me somewhere private. Do you remember? You whispered lewd things in my ear. I had to question if you were real or a desire demon.

I thought you were getting me ready for a scandalous but enthralling affair, then you told me you loved me. I don’t recall if I said it back. I was so surprised then. I honestly thought we were mere companions in a whirlwind tryst.

I want to tell you, I might have loved you before you loved me.

Now let me tell you this in person.

Your Heart

 

_This letter is lost somewhere in the Waking Sea._

 

**++**

 

Cassandra,

Do you have any news? Tevinter is restless.

Dorian

  


**++**

 

Dorian,

I regret to inform you that there is no news yet. I have sent scouts to see if they can spot him. We are trying our best. Please take care of yourself. And Marek.

Always,

Cassandra

  


**++**

 

Solas,

I will be honest. I write to you in desperation. Not as your enemy, but as a man fearful for his lover and a former friend.

You have asked for Ry’del months ago and we find no sign of him.

We fight on opposite sides, this is true. But I know you have the integrity to uphold your promises.

However, if the years have changed you—then please, just tell me.

Will I see him again?

Please tell me so I may grieve him properly. The Solas I know would allow me that much.

Sincerely,

Dorian

  


**++**

 

Dearest Dorian,

I am not a cruel man and I still uphold my promises. Your Inquisitor is safe from harm in the Arbor Wilds, but I do not guarantee his safety in the Dales. If he is dead, I do not know.

Dorian, I wish we fought on the same side as we did before. You were a true friend and I enjoyed our conversations. If only life was so simple.

Solas

  


**++**

 

Cassandra,

The Inquisitor is in the Dales. Bring him back.

Dorian

 

**++**

 

My Love,

I have kept my promise. I will tell you this in person.

Always,

Ry’del

 

_The letter is received and Dorian clutches the letter to his chest. He can’t help but cry in relief._

 

**++**

 

When the Inquisitor comes, I say one thing.

“You’re back.”

“I have sworn it, have I not?” He says to me with a small smile. I think it’s inappropriate—the mood in the manor is still heavy. Only after Father and the Inquisitor talks would things calm.  

Father is beyond relieved. He kisses the Inquisitor in front of me—several times—he doesn’t even bother hiding it anymore. At that moment, I realize I would have to accept the Inquisitor with all my heart. Such thing will be a task.

When they talk of Fen’Harel, Father lets me stay and listen.

“You’re old enough. And it’s better for you to know what’s going on.” He says.

But it’s not Father I look permission from, I turn to the Inquisitor and he nods, offering me a seat.

I stay quiet as they talk—all business. Nothing they’d whisper to each other in their bedroom, which I am glad for. I didn’t need to hear it.

“Solas asks for my surrender.” The Inquisitor starts. I notice he holds Father’s hand in his, caressing Father’s fingers with his thumb.

Father frowns, “All that to ask the Inquisition to surrender? Surely, he must have known you would say no.”

“It wasn’t just that,” the Inquisitor continues. “He asked _me_ specifically to surrender. To join his side. He tried to make me understand—to see how the elves could retain their former glory. Not as nomads or slaves—but as beings with power.” He looks at Father, sun eyes burning. “He made me see what could be, and Dorian, I admit, I was tempted. I understand what Solas is fighting for and it is beautiful.”

Father says nothing, squeezing the Inquisitor’s hand, urging him to keep going. “It is a paradise.” he simply says, a far away look in his eyes.

“ _Amatus_ ,” there is an urgent look in father’s face, “tell me. What have you done?”

The Inquisitor takes a few moments to break away from his trance. “I asked him what paradise is without those you love.”

“You denied him,” Father asks, insistent.

“I denied him.” The Inquisitor smiles. “He told me he admired my resilience but called me a fool.”

Father briefly closes his eyes, “you are a fool.”

The Inquisitor laughs, “I am a fool.”

There were stories there I am not privy to, so I leave them.

 

**++**

 

In a few days, Ry’del will leave again.

Dorian doesn’t let him leave without being touched.

“Do you remember this feeling?” Dorian slides his hand on his _Amatus’s_ chest, feeling every palpitation and every hitch of breath. Dorian commits it to memory. How long before they see each other again?

Ry’del moans under him—face, bright red. Dorian is pleased to know the elf feels so much of it. The elf gasps, twisting and shivering with every touch.

But Dorian teases. He’ll play with his lover’s body until he starts begging for more.

It was no secret that Dorian takes pleasure in knowing that no one else has seen the face his _Amatus_ makes when he feels pleasure. Lips wet with spit, mouth slightly apart—panting.

“What would people say, seeing you like this?” Dorian whispers in Ry’del’s ear. “Eager and—” It is enough, Dorian thinks and enters his _Amatus_ . “ _Pliant_.”

Inside his lover feels wet, _sloppy_ —soaked with semen. How many times has he finished inside the elf? Perhaps too many times as it trickles out of Ry’del with every pull.

Ry’del is incoherent, muttering for Dorian to go faster, deeper. And Dorian always gratifies such requests. Everything feels like a blur, Dorian knows he’s moving just right as Ry’del shudders underneath him, spilling seed without being touched.

And it is enough. 

Dorian kisses his  _Amatus_ again and again. He commits it to memory, because now, he accepts that times like these will be rare.

They bathe together after and lace the night with ministrations and small whispers.

 

**++**

 

**|| Fourteen.**

 

“Isn’t it blasphemous?” Vinaeres looks at me with contempt. "A mage with a soldier's sword..."

I shrug, “Either way, it’s none of your business.” I continue swinging the sword. Vinaeres’s brother, Ditrik lunges, driving his own wooden sword forward. I parry and slice at the air. Ditrik is too fast and I miss. He side steps, thrusting the sword forward, jabbing me on my side. I yelp, dropping the sword. 

“You’ve lost.” Ditrik grins, raising his hands in victory.

“You’re going to get in trouble—the both of you.” Vinaeres is exasperated. She shakes her head and frowns at us before walking back towards the Rosenhain estates. 

“I’ve lost this time, but that’s only because you’ve had more practice.” I pick up the sword and lean it against the racks. “If we were to battle using magic—I’d obliterate you!” 

Ditrik rolls his eyes, “as if that would be fair.” 

We take walk in the rose garden. It is the pride of the Rosenhain Family, well taken care of and famous in Minrathous. It’s a pity, I think, that they are shunned for their mixed blood and generally ignored. Father making friends with them had been his way of publicly rebelling against Tevinter norms, not that Father hasn’t been doing so since he was born. 

“Did you know that there is talk of joining our families?” Ditrik says suddenly, putting his hands behind his back as he walks. I couldn’t help but think how regal he looks—truly a noble’s son. 

“Yes,” I sigh, “Father has told me, but he says it’s just wishful thinking.” I remember that night, during dinner. 

“What do you think of the Rosenhain girl, Vinaeres. Pretty isn’t she?” Father had said, trying to be sly. 

“I suppose.” I had answered, knowing where the conversation was going. “Bit of a brat though.” I finish. 

Father chuckled at this, “who knows, maybe one day you’ll find it endearing.” 

I made a face, “I’m not marrying her.” 

“No one is saying that!” Father had smiled.

I turn my attention back to Ditrik “Why? Are your parents really considering it? I’m not marrying Vinaeres,” I exclaim. “Besides, there is an Antivan girl I fancy.” 

“You mean the  _ lady  _ who helps run her family’s bakery?” Ditrik teases.

My face warms. “Perhaps.” 

“You’ve got no chance,” Ditrik shakes his head. “She’s probably got a husband already!”

“It doesn’t matter!” I say, suddenly annoyed. “Let’s drop it.” 

“Alright,” Ditrik sighs. Silence gather between us. I have been friends with Ditrik long enough to know something is on his mind.

I try to ask him, but he speaks first. “Are the rumor true?” 

“What rumors? There are many rumors being spread in Tevinter.” I say, stopping at a bench to sit. The smell of roses here is strong and it makes me feel a little bit queasy. 

I can see the hesitation in Ditrik’s face, so I patiently wait for him. “About Magister Pavus.”

“There are  _ many  _ rumors about my Father. You have to be specific.” 

“Is it true his lover is the Inquisitor?” Ditrik whispers, leaning closer as if someone would hear him if he didn’t. 

I think for a moment, it’s not something I want to tell people myself. It isn’t my story to tell. So I say nothing. Ditrik continues, “if you can’t say, then is it true Magister Pavus has a relationship with, um,” he swallows, “with, um, a man?” 

“Ah,” I avoid looking him in the eyes. I know what he wants to ask. I’ve seen him with other boys before. I know how it looks—the small touches and fear lingering just beneath the skin. So I tell him, “this is true. Yes.” 

Another silence fills between us, but it’s comfortable. 

He breaks it again, “what do you think about it? Man loving another man.”

I shrug, “I accept that it exists. How about you?”

“Isn’t it wrong?” He says, a guiltiness behind his eyes. 

“No,” I say this quickly and firmly. “It just isn’t.”

Ditrik purses his lips, sitting next to me. He covers his face with his hands and in a muffled voice, he says what I knew he wanted to confess for so long. “I like boys.” His voice is so quiet, I could barely hear him. “And there is this boy who says he likes me.”

“Do you like him back?” 

He looks at me, tears in his eyes and he nods fervently. “I do. I really do.”

I sigh heavily. “I don’t know anything about relationships or liking someone like that, but from the way I see it, isn’t it better to just accept it and live your life normally?” I remember how happy Father looks with the Inquisitor and if Ditrik can have that, it would make me happy. Then, I remember other things too, the bad ones. “But…” I hesitate. I don’t want to make Ditrik second guess himself.

“But…?” Ditrik encouraged. 

“But there will be hard times. I’ve seen it. You have to pretend and act like something else in public. And if you do act like lovers in public, people stare. People will judge you and say things about you that aren’t true.” I think of all the times Father had been accosted for his sexuality. “It will be hard Ditrik, but I know that if you persevere, the happiness you will feel being yourself can be worth it. But, what do I know? For all we know, my Father’s experience and yours will be different.” 

Ditrik nods, quietly mulling over what I have said. He thinks so loudly—face contorting into different emotions. “I want to tell my family.” 

I think of the Rosenhains. Lady Ksenia is tough, but she has a fierce love for her children. Their father, Alphonse, is one of the kindest men I’ve met—I almost couldn’t believe he is soldier. “Your parents are understanding.” I say. 

“Do you think so?”   

“I could ask Father, if you’re alright with it. To talk to you, and give you advice.” I offer.

“I can’t possibly,” Ditrik bites his lip. “Your father is far too bu—!”

“Don’t deny my help yet,” I say. “Let me talk to him first.”

After a moment of silence, he nods. I read determination on his face.

**++**

It is early in the morning—the sun has not come out yet and most of Thedas is still sleeping. But not Dorian. He plans to personally train Marek in the mornings—the teachers at his academy say there was nothing more they could teach him in terms of his fire spells. Dorian had decided to teach him more challenging ones—more harmful ones. The war is raging and he wants Marek to be ready.

But his son is lost in thought so Dorian sits him down to talk. 

“I’m just thinking,” he says quietly. 

“About what?” 

Marek scratches his head, frustrated. He groans loudly, “I have a friend.”

“I am aware you have several,” Dorian smiles.

“Father, please.” Marek is rubs his hands on his face. “This friend—Ditrik , he likes boys and I thought you could give him some advice.”

“Oh,” Dorian says, letting the seriousness sink in. “Well, I can’t give advice if it’s not wanted, Marek.” 

“He asked about you,” Marek avoids Dorian’s eyes. “He thinks he’s  _ wrong _ .” 

Dorian’s heart sinks. He knows the feeling—knowing he can’t change, knowing he couldn’t even if tried. It was torture—he remembers this. Dorian had all the anger back then, he remembers, making his fire burn hotter than need be when practicing against those who whispered behind his back. But there was guilt too, festering inside him, until he believed he was as rotten and wrong. Then there was his poor mother, driven to sink further into her vices after the rumors were proved true. Only did he confront it when his father appeared in front of him years later seeking forgiveness.

“What did you say to him?” Dorian carefully watches Marek’s face.

“I told him he isn’t.” 

Dorian sighs in relief, not sure what he thought he would hear. “If I am to be honest, I don’t quite know what advice to give. But I will say this, it will be difficult. Even with support and love from the right people, it will be hard. Tell him again, he’s not wrong. He is as right as everyone else and if truly wants to talk, our door is open.” 

“He wants to tell his parents.” Marek looks nervous, twiddling his thumbs. “Would you talk to  _ them _ ?” 

Parents.  _ Family _ . Dealing with family has always been difficult, Dorian cannot forget it. When he met Ry’del’s family for the first time, they welcomed him openly. It was strange, so different from his own. Keeper Deshanna told him stories about his  _ Amatus _ —all the happy ones. They speak of his eyes, his birth, his fate—kissed by gods and goddesses alike, they had said. It was Ry’del’s sister, Mih’thra, who comes to Dorian with suspicious eyes.

“Do you love my brother,” she asks, imposing. She is unusually tall for an elf. Dorian had been young then, offended by her questioning, answered languidly followed by cheeky smiles. It was so stupid of him to do so, now that he looks back on it. “Love him properly.” It was an order, “love him properly, Lord Pavus. Don’t let his heart shatter.” 

Dorian wonders how the Rosenhains would react to their son.  _ They’re good people _ , Dorian thinks. But according to everyone else, so was his parents. “Yes, I’ll talk to them if Ditrik really wants me to.”

**++**

The blast comes at Dorian with ferocity—it’s hot and angry. Dorian parries, diffusing Marek’s fire spell soon after. Marek is relentless and attacks once more, sending a succession of spells that is stronger than the last. Of course, the child is still learning, so Dorian avoids them with ease, but he notes it’s getting harder. 

“Let’s stop,” Dorian says before Marek could drink another bottle of lyrium potion. “It’s not good to continuously drink that. Let your mana restore itself naturally.” 

Marek laughs, putting the potion down, “getting tired, old man?” 

“I beg your pardon,” Dorian mocks shock. “You should be grateful I’m even training you personally.” 

“ _ You  _ were the one who insisted!” Marek puts his staff away, wiping sweat of his brow. “In any case, how did I do Father?” 

Dorian sighs, feeling a worriness in his stomach. The boy is most definitely strong. His magic is most definitely wild and Dorian wonders how well Marek will be able to control this in the future. “You’re strong, you’re closely matching me.” 

“But?” Marek knows too well.

“But you’re not targeted. We will work on that next time.” Dorian straightens himself, fixing his robes. 

Marek glances outside, the sun is starting to break the horizon. “Ah, it’s time?” 

“Yes,” Dorian starts for the foyer. “I’ll see you tonight—perhaps we can invite the Rosenhain's?” 

Marek nods.

**++**

“Look at you,” Maevaris pats imaginary dust away from Dorian’s black robes, “so serious and official. It’s no wonder I don’t see you much anymore.” 

Dorian raises a brow, “well, I suppose calling a  _ war _ council to discuss Fen’Harel’s  _ war _ does that to you.” 

“Sexy,” Maevaris hums. “In any case, they seem to have taken you quite seriously.” And Dorian is glad. Altus mages pours into the Lacertus Hall, taking their seats at a balcony above the Laetans. When the Praeteri enter, gasps are heard around the hall. 

Even Archon Radonis, who has warmed to Dorian’s political agendas, gives him a questioning look.

“You’ve really done it this time, haven’t you?” Maevaris says offhandedly, “just look at all their faces. If you’ve invited their slaves to come too, their heads would blow off.” 

“That would be dandy,” Dorian sits straight as the generals come in—hard faced and so difficult to persuade.

A bell tolls in the distance and the mediators bang their gavels to begin. 

“Magister Dorian Pavus has called this war council to discuss the threat that sits at Tevinter’s borders. Magister Pavus, how would you like to proceed?” 

Dorian stands in front of the assembly, hands clasped in front of him, “Fen’Harel’s forces grow larger and larger each day. I have been informed by the Inquisition that they have breached the eastern border of Nevarra. If Nevarra falls, we must have a plan in place.”

“If you want to strengthen our defenses, we have done just that. Minrathous has been properly fortified. No one can get in.” General Palinurus Acasius looks at Dorian with contempt. He had always been a difficult man to persuade, more than that, he is an awful man. Everyone knows the General has his preferences—he likes them  _ untouched _ ,  _ foreign,  _ and  _ defiant _ . How many elves has General Acasius enslaved only to throw them away as soon as they were broken? 

Working with him makes Dorian sick. 

“It’s not enough.” Dorian stares the General down. “I propose, to enter into  _ orbis terrarum ad bellum _ ,” the mages murmur. No one has called for this in centuries—it’s desperate, serious. It calls for unification and the combined power of  _ all  _ of Tevinter—across all societal class. Dorian knows it would be difficult. “If there is a perfect time to show all of Thedas what a united Tevinter looks like, it is now! ” 

“I refuse!” An old altus mage bangs his fists on the desk. “I refuse to work with the laetans!”  

Maevaris rolls her eyes as the assembly breaks into uproarious arguments. Some were of the Lucerni party, arguing for War of the World, while the others vehemently reject the idea.

“We would look weak,” General Acasius speaks in his booming voice. “If Fen’Harel’s people see Tevinter’s Altus mages stoop so low to work with Laetans—Maker forbid, the Praeteri—we would look weak and divisible. I deny this proposal.” 

“Aye!” Another shouts. One after the other, those steeped in tradition voice their disapproval at the thought. 

Dorian, frustrated and irritated, gets a hand on his arm. He turns to Maevaris and she raises her brow. He expects her to calm him, but instead, she says, “threaten them if you must. These are desperate times.”

He sinks into his chair, “You’re all fools,” Dorian mutters.

“I beg silence,” Archon Radonis is the one to speak. The assembly quiets. “Perhaps Magister Pavus is right.  _ Orbis terrarum ad bellum  _ will show Thedas we are capable of uniting. Our Altus mages are powerful already, but how much more strength can we show if we fight alongside the Laetans and Praeteri?” It has been forgotten that Archon Radonis favors the Pavus house at the moment—to spur him could damage any budding political career. 

Another old general speaks—Dorian tires of these old men with old ideas. “Tevinter must remain on the winning side. Fen’Harel is strong. We could join them—be on the winning side.” 

“Traitor!” Someone shouts and again, the assembly erupts into roars of screaming and shouting. 

Dorian feels a headache coming on and he wishes he is home, letting Marek teach him how to cook. The bickering doesn’t stop and soon, a fight breaks out—they at least have the decency, Dorian thinks, to keep their magic at bay. 

“Your parties are always so wonderful, Dorian,” Maevaris sighs, propping her head on her hand. “Have you considered changing careers?” 

However, the jest is lost on Dorian, because there, among the Praeteri is a nervous elf. He is looking around wildly, hands drawn up towards his chest. 

“Maevaris, did they allow servants in?” Dorian keeps his eye on the elf. 

She shrugs, “General Acasius has demanded it, I believe.” 

“Look there,” Dorian points and Maevaris’s relaxed demeanor changed. 

“Something’s wrong,” she says. Dorian nods in agreement. He stands and pushes past the angry crowd, making his way down towards the lower seats. The elf continues to avoid brawling men until he has his back towards a wall. In the pit of Dorian’s stomach, a sickness comes—worry pulsing through his veins. Then the elf looks up and spots him. Almost instinctively, the elf starts to fumble with something hidden in his clothes. 

“Stop,” Dorian yells. But he is ignored and the crowd pushes back. “Wait—!” 

The elf brings it out—an _orb_. Dorian panics, he’s screaming now. 

He won’t reach the elf in time, he looks back, “Maevaris!” He screams. She starts to move and Dorian casts a spell as the assembly is bathed in green light.

Dorian knows this. It's familiar. And he understands what destruction it can bring.

“Marek,” he gasps and the world comes crashing down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I love the Rosenhains, they're ocs but I just want Marek to have friends.  
> +I don't know Teven words--I thought Teven sounded pretty latin, so did that.   
> +Archon Radonis was saved by Dorian--Dorian prevented a coup and stuff. Lol.  
> +I love Maevaris/Dorian banter. I'm sure it happens...right?
> 
> Next Chapter:::::::::::Child, a Fighter


	9. Child, a Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek finds out Dorian's fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested at all with the OCs (The Rosenhain Children), please read the end notes.

**|| Child, A Fighter**

**|| Fourteen.**

 

I envy Vinaeres’ magic. She’s strong—versed in all the different spells. I notice she has a slight preference for her winter magic and she likes to use it against me. When we spar, we are relentless. I am sure, if we aren’t given restraints, we could fight each other until one of us becomes incapacitated. Vinaeres had wondered out loud once, if we would end up killing each other one day. I answered her, “if our parents are to be taken seriously and we are wed, probably.” She didn’t take to my quip, feeling slighted and declared me her rival. Father jokingly had said that it is the perfect description to our relationship. What I do well, she does better. When she gets praised, I get praised twice.

Vinaeres spins her staff, bringing it down with a thud. Lightning sparks from it and she gives me a challenging stare. 

“Are you planning on losing again, Marek?” I can feel her building up her mana. She fights aggressively, rarely putting up barriers even though she’s very good at it. 

“Of course not,” I say, pointing my staff at her. “You only won last time because I had a cold.” I cast a storm spell, and Vinaeres dodges, moving around the field. While she’s distracted, I cast traps around her. But then she fade steps towards me and our staffs clash. I emit a barrier and it pushes her back several steps. She responds by casting several spells. It does the trick and depletes my barrier quickly. 

“This is my win!” Vinaeres stands above me, that wicked grin on her face. And it is all too familiar—the blood in my body feels cold and my limbs start to slow. In the past, I may have admitted defeat at this point, but Father has taught me many new things since I last sparred with Vinaeres. There are things that will surprise her. I gather my mana and focus on letting my fire heat me up—for a moment, it looks like I would burst into flames and when it dissipates, I know I’ll be temporarily invincible from Vinaeres’s winter spells. When I charge, I see the shock on her face and it gives me joy. She had not expected this.

It is my turn to go on the offense. I push Vinaeres back with a series of my own inferno spells—it’s powerful, I know this from the way she moves—frantic and faster than she normally does. She frowns as she throws up her barrier. In a fit of excitement, I lose myself and send a consuming fire her way—I realize too late what I had done and Vinaeres’s barrier shatters and I see her desperately putting up ice walls to calm my fire. It won’t work, I know this.

“Vinaeres!” I yell. “You have to get out of the way!” 

But of course, what I can do well, she must do better—and she does. Vinaeres screams and summons a blizzard that calms the fire. 

“Help me douse it,” she says calmly, and I do my best. 

Once the fire is out, Vinaeres and I collapse to the ground.  I have never felt so empty of mana. I feel lightheaded and my limbs are heavy. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, gasping for breath. 

“This is your win.” Vinaeres avoids my gaze as  she stands to pick up her staff. I can feel her anger, it sits on her face so naturally. There is nothing I can say to placate her, so I stay quiet. 

It is Nikal who breaks the silence. “Vinaeres, Marek, come! You must come now!” He shouts. He’s breathing heavily as he tugs on my arm. “Hurry!” 

 

**++**

 

When we reach the Rosenhain estates, Ditrik grabs my shoulders, “You’re alright?” The fear in his eyes scare me. It’s different from what his fear normally looks like.

“Yes,” I say, confused. “What’s going on?”  I look over to Vinaeres who is speaking to Nikal in hushed whispers. She nods, glancing at me once or twice.

“Ditrik, what’s going on?” I narrow my eyes at him. Ditrik withdraws, a hard look on his face. He says nothing for a moment then pulls me towards him to press his forehead to mine. Ditrik has done this before, when he can’t convey what he’s thinking. An understanding, he once said, that what he will say is of great importance.

“What is it?” I whisper. 

Ditrik’s eyes flicker—green and serene—to mine before closing them. “Lacertus Hall was attacked. It sits in ruins.”

I pull away, “what?” 

Just then, Lady Rosenhain enters the room and Nikal runs to hug her tightly. “My little ones,” she says. “You’ve heard I’m sure, there was an explosion in Lacertus Hall—strong magic.” Her eyes fall on me. 

“My Father?” My throat is dry and I feel like vomiting. Ditrik clasps his hand around mine, he knows what happened, and it confirms the worst of my suspicions. 

I watch Lady Rosenhain’s face. I can’t read her. As always. “There is no news yet,” she says, “but knowing Magister Pavus, he will be safe.” 

“You should stay with us,” Ditrik says, his eyes are pleading, I have never seen that before, “and wait here.” 

“It’s a good idea,” Vinaeres stands next to her mother—for some reason, I notice how alike they are. 

“Yes, Marek,” Lady Rosenhain puts a hand on my back. “In fact, I insist.” 

Shocked and unsure about how to feel, I nod solemnly. But in my heart, I know I cannot stay here. I must go back home and wait for Father there.

As soon as I am alone with Ditrik, I tell him this. He argues with me, tears in my eyes. 

"Please, please, please, please—!" He says, shaking his head. His hands grip the collar of my robes. 

“I’m sorry,” I say to him and I embrace him. We stay like this for what seem like hours.

“Fine,” he replies suddenly and my heart breaks. He understands, I decide, that he knows I would leave no matter how much he begged me not to. He presses his hands to my face. Ditrik surprises me with a kiss, but I know why he does it. He is saying goodbye. 

I put my hand to my lips. I did not dislike it...I think. 

“Stay safe,” he says this with his hard face. “Or I will never forgive myself.” 

I do what I know calms me and push his hair away from his face. “I swear it.” 

I wonder for a moment, if this is what lovers do. 

 

**++**

 

The sun has a few more hours before it sets, still, I run to the manor. I feel my lungs struggle with every step. I decide to cut through the forest, and it darkens all around me. It looks bigger than I remember—I never go here alone. This forest scares me. It’s too quiet and small sounds are easily heard. I believe spirits live in the trees and Vinaeres laughs at me for that. Father tells me there is more truth to it than I could imagine. He had thought that would quell my fears, but it only heightens them. But today, I don't care about spirits or demons. I want to go home. 

I burst out of the forest and look around, the manor is dark just through the gates. I climb over, as always. Father had caught me once and told me to be more civilized—this will be the last time, I promise him in my head. I sprint the last of the gardens and stop in front of the manor doors. They have never looked so imposing as they did today. I carefully push the doors open—it would be open, as we kept it in the summers. It creaks open, the darkness inside is ominous, the sun outside barely lights up the hallways.

The manor is empty, I know this. But I try anyway. “Father, Shaela, I’m home!” I call out. I am met with nothing but silence. Shaela is with her husband and child in Ferelden, Father had given her time for a vacation. And Father, I know he was in Lacertus Hall. I will have to wait. I close the manor doors and light a torch. It is safer, I think, to stay in the study. Whenever Father got home, and after greeting me, he would go straight to the study. There, he records his day and prepares what he must for the next day. I fervently hope Father sticks to his routine and in a short while, he will meet me here and tell me what happened at the council. 

 

**++**

 

Hours tick by slowly, outside, I hear the panic. There are people screaming, marching. The stomach turns but I keep myself busy with making elfroot potions. For some reason, I make several of them and stash them into a knapsack. Just in case—a part of me says, and another part, says I’m doing it to humor myself. My staff is leaned against the wall next to me. I won’t have to use it, I make myself believe it. 

I continue to sit in darkness, rereading Father’s journals and notes. Rereading books I’ve already scoured and studied. They’re not making sense and I read sentences again and again until—

I hear the doors of the manor slam shut. I had closed them, I know I have. Carefully, I leave the study, being as quiet as I can. I keep my grip on my staff, the knapsack slung around my shoulders. Downstairs, I hear clattering and things being broken. I stop myself from calling out for Father, it’s not him, I know this.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the manor is still dark. I hear chatter. 

“This is the Pavus house, isn’t it?” 

“House? It’s a bloody castle.” More broken glass. 

“Look at all these things! So much gold!” Laughter. I turn the corner and see there were two of them—men brandishing swords. There is broken glass everywhere. A portrait of Father and I is slashed to pieces. The frame, laying like garbage on the floor. They haven’t seen me yet and I burn inside. How dare they come into our home and ruin it with their hands. 

Before I could stop myself, I shout. “Get out!” 

They turn, surprised, “it’s the pup.” The taller one says. 

“Do we kill him?” The ugly one scratches his neck and picks up his sword. 

I don’t give them a chance to try. These men are easy—slow and untrained. Against, me they don’t stand a chance. A storm spells incapacitates them quickly and I freeze them in place. 

“You should have never come in.” I say, keeping myself from hitting them with my staff. I look around the room, trying to think on what to do next. Before I could move, I am slammed across the room, almost automatically, I cast a healing spell. When I come to, I see an elf—armored from head to toe with a sword and shield. 

The elf is big and he towers over me. He stops for a moment, looking down on the other two, “pathetic.” He mutters and brings his sword down on their necks. I shudder, knowing this would be a harder fight— _ no _ . I remember my lessons. If I know it won’t end well for me, the next step is to escape. 

As soon as my body heals, I bolt towards the door, but he is faster. 

He blocks my path and I think frantically. I pretend he is Vinaeres—just as vicious and not as pretty. I send a few spells his way. He blocks most of them and swings his sword. I dodge, but it brings me closer to him than I want to. As I scramble backwards, he rushes towards me, shield in front and it knocks me back. 

Use inferno. I tell myself, but I refuse. I would not risk burning the manor down. I stick with storm spells and the air buzzes with electricity. Outside, I can hear people getting louder. Some are chanting, some are screaming.

Father is not coming, I realize. Everything seems to blur and I can feel myself giving up. 

The elf stands over me—as I did the other two men. My ribs are broken, I know this but I save my strength. I will die here. But I will make sure this elf who entered my home will die with me. My fire burns bright and it engulfs me. I do not burn, but he will. 

He raises his sword above his head and I scream. 

Then he doesn’t move. He stands still for a moment and I finally notice it. A spear juts from his neck. When he falls, I brace myself, but it is the Inquisitor. He stands there, eyes wide in panic.

“Marek,” he kneels beside me. He puts a hand to my side and I twist away from pain—but that hurt even worse. 

“My rib,” I say. “I have elfroot potions, but I think they’re all smashed.” The Inquisitor says nothing and checks the knapsack. 

“Yes,” he says. “Can you heal yourself?” 

I nod, “but my mana is low.” 

The Inquisitor fishes something from his belt. “Drink this.” He says quietly and I do. It’s Lyrium potion—but stronger than what I’m used to. My mana surges through me—faster than I’d ever felt it before. As soon as I know I can cast the healing spell, I do. It only takes moments for my ribs to heal itself. 

“Father,” I ask. 

“I don’t know.” He says, pulling me up to my feet. He is like Father. His face cannot hide his emotions.

“The place surrounding the hall is overrun by Solas’s army.” 

“Fen’Harel is here?” I move to peer out the window but the Inquisitor pulls me back. The chanting and the screaming is far closer now. 

“We must leave.” He is insistent. I shake the Inquisitor’s hand away and look out the window. The crowd is at the gates, they rock it back and forth. It will fall soon. 

It’s not an army out there—it is obvious. It is an angry crowd. Servants—no, Tevinter  _ slaves _ .  _ Elves _ . Fen’Harel’s army simply supported their cause and they are ready to punish those who made their lives miserable. 

I think how Father had fought for them in the recent years. Although I could understand their anger, I couldn’t think why they would come for Father. 

“Let’s go.” I say. “Minrathous has fallen.” The Inquisitor lances his spear on the floor where he stands. I know what it’s for. If Father comes, he will see it and know I am alive. But pettiness makes a home in my heart and I use the rest of my mana and burn the manor down. 

They will not find Father’s journals. They will not find portraits. They will not find anything of Pavus—I will not let them claim trophies. 

All that will remain is the Inquisitor’s spear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marek + Story Notes:  
> +I wanted Marek to fend for himself a bit more than usual. He's been relying so much on Dorian, I wanted him to show off what he can do. Which is not much by battle standards, but since Dorian has been preparing him for war (just in case), he at least has a feel for it.   
> +This is not the first time Marek broke his ribs.  
> +Marek has been obsessed with being like Dorian, I think it would be interesting to see him in a light where he is away from that. If you can tell, he's picking up on Dorian's more flowery language.   
> +The line "I swear it," that he uses on Ditrik comes directly from the Inquisitor. He wanted to try it out too--haha!  
> +Personally, I think Marek has a very comfortable relationship with Ditrik. It's intimate and I think Marek considers Ditrik someone he loves but to what capacity...well, let's just quietly watch it develop. 
> 
> Vinaeres:   
> +Vinaeres is two years older than Marek (16 current).  
> +She's very strong with spirit and winter magic.   
> +Vinaeres aims to be like her mother who is politically competent and incredibly good at being a leader.   
> +Vinaeres is thinking of becoming a necromancer as she is interested in spirits and demons.  
> +Vinaeres developed a crush on Marek sometime when she was fifteen.
> 
> DItrik:   
> +Ditrik is one years older than Marek (15 current).  
> +He is a scholar but knows how to swing a sword.   
> +He's soft-spoken and an introvert.   
> +He is in a relationship with the boy mentioned in Chapter 7. The boy's name is Kael and he will never be mentioned in story.  
> +He considered Marek as one of his loves. He's thought about Marek in a romantic way before Kael, so not anymore.
> 
> Nikal:  
> +Nikal is a year younger than Marek (13 current).  
> +He is a warrior through and through. He practices sword fighting far more and it makes his father proud. 
> 
>  
> 
> Next Chapter:::::::::::::Travel, a Task


	10. Understanding, a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek is growing, he learns a few things and meets a fisherman by the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written and edited at the brink of sleep. So I beg pardon. I shall revisit later!

**|| Understanding, A Boy**

**|| Fifteen**

 

It has been a little more than a year and we never stay in one place for long. Sometimes, the Inquisitor leaves me with people he trusts and disappears for weeks. Whenever he returns, he always looks haggard and gaunt—as if he danced with death and barely won. He apologizes to me profusely, saying he has no news of Father and I tell him the same thing again and again.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” 

It’s true. There is nothing to forgive because I have accepted that Father is dead. The Inquisitor has not and I wonder how long before his denial will consume and break him. 

 

XX

 

“Are you practicing your magic?” The Inquisitor rubs his temple, voice rough. “I talked to Cassandra, she’s looking for a tutor that can help you.”

I feel offended. Father had hired some of the best tutors in Tevinter and Father himself taught me. What more can I learn? So I am petulant. “No need.” 

The Inquisitor sighs deeply, tossing his head back to stare at the afternoon sky. “I don’t doubt that,” he looks at me. “You trained under Dorian after all. But you can learn new things from different teachers.” I stay quiet and the Inquisitor continues. “For example, your magic is strong but you’re highly imbalanced. It would do you good to have teachers that specialize in winter magic.”

“No need,” I say again, turning away. I know what the Inquisitor is trying to do. He keeps me occupied with tutors here and there, keeping me from battle, keeping me from fighting with him. Yet, it’s strange. If Father were here, I know he would do the same thing. And  _ that _ , I suppose, is what irritates me the most. How can the Inquisitor resemble Father so much? 

“You have no choice,” the Inquisitor suddenly says, “I wasn’t asking if you wanted tutors, I’m getting them for you.” 

And that makes me ache more. “You’re not my father.” My voice is angry. I’m not shouting, but neither am I controlled. 

“I’m not your Father, but I’m all you’ve got. You’ll be training with the tutors Cassandra finds.” He walks away from me, face calm and even. I feel the heat of my magic boil but a large hand clamps down on my shoulder. I know who it is. 

There is no one else at the camp that I am better friends with than Bull. 

I give Bull a look and sit on the ground, tearing at the grass and piling it on top of each other. “Is he purposely keeping me busy so that I can’t join the fight?” 

Bull grunts as he sits next to me, “yes.” 

I frown at him, “why? I can fight better than half the people here.” I rub my hands together and burn the pile of grass in front of me. The flames disappear quickly as the grass burns. “He’s keeping me away like—” I stop myself because I suddenly understand. With Father gone, I am as I was. An orphan with no money to his name and unpredictable magic. Aldred Asker—the man who abandoned me in his farm—had said it more than once before. “He’s keeping me away like I’m a burden.” 

Bull suddenly stands and pulls me up to my feet. “Come, I’ll take you on a small raid and you can test your abilities.” 

I turn to him quickly, eyes wide. “What about the Inquisitor?” 

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt _me_.” Bull winks. My stomach feels queasy with excitement, my thoughts of abandonment disappears with it and I follow him into the woods. 

 

++

 

“Do you see them?” Bull whispers, pointing over the top of the hill. Four soldiers with Fen’Harel’s sigil are stationed there, two are on watch while the other two sat by their tents, chatting away. I am surprised to see they are humans.

“Yes,” I whisper back. I can hear my heart beating wildly in my chest.  

“Are we going to keep whispering or are we going to get this done?” Sera blew into my ear, giggling quietly when I jerk away. I scowl at her. As much as I enjoy laughing with her, I couldn’t appreciate how relaxed she was at situations like these. But, Bull had said she was the only one who would say yes to an unsanctioned raid. 

Bull shifts from his prone position and crawls forward, he pulls me up next to him. “How many do you think you can take?”

“All of them,” I say without hesitation. Sera pats my back, as if to comfort me. 

“What a dingus,” she covers her mouth, stifling a laugh. “You’re overestimating yourself.”

“Don’t call me a—!” I start but Bull hushes both of us. 

“If you think you can take them all, then show me.” Bull says instead. I nod and stick my tongue out at Sera and she does the same. I’ll spar with her later, I think.

 

++

 

As a child, I’ve quickly learned that looking as pathetic as possible makes people ignore you and find you a bother. I move through the trees, reaching for dirt to smear on my face and hands. The staff can’t be hidden so I turn it upside down, as if I’ve found it somewhere. And I rub my eyes until there are tears in my eyes. As I approach them, the two who are on watch stiffen, but I merely glance at them and lower my head as I walk past. 

“Stop,” one of them barks, drawing his sword. “Come here.” 

I glance at them, eyes wide as if surprised. One of them had long dark hair, skin pale and sickly. The other was taller, with bad teeth showing through an ugly smile. I walk up to the hill with my head still down. “Yessir?” 

The taller one raises his sword and forces my head up with the blade. It digs into my skin, drawing some blood—they’ll regret it, I think. “Despite all the mess, you look like some regal boy.” He grins, rotten teeth showing. “Or did you  _ play  _ with regal men?” I know what he is trying to imply, but I fake ignorance. 

“Malachi, get back.” The sickly one glowers, and Malachi follows immediately. “What are you doing with a staff, boy?” 

I glance at my staff and shrug. “I found it.” I pull the staff closer to my body as I slowly gather my mana. 

“Took it off some dead mage, more like it,” Malachi sneers, shaking his head as he joins the other two by the tents, leaving me alone with the pale man.

“Drop the staff,” he grunts, “can’t be too careful.” I almost feel bad, his sunken eyes are dark, as if no hope lay behind it. He moves slowly as well, either careful or sluggish. 

I clutch at my staff, shaking my head. I try to look pitiful, but I know too much pride runs through my blood—one that the Pavus name has taught me. “It’s got jewels in it, I could sell it and make money. I’m not letting it out of hands.” 

The man sighs and tilted his head over to the others. “You don’t look like you’re starving, but I was taught to share my food.” He clears a space for me and now guilt is spilling out of me like sweat.

“I am fine where I am,” I stay still, watching them carefully. “I’ll get going sirs.” 

“Right,” says the pale man. “But before you go, leave the staff.” His eyes are still sunken, but there is a level of command in his voice. 

“Do as he says sweetie,” a woman whispers from behind me, I jump forward and turn to face her. 

She grins, licking her lips, “you’re a pretty boy, aren’t you? Too pretty to be walking around like this.” She disappears from sight and I right my staff. Whatever pretense I thought I had created was never there to begin with. The pale man remained seated by the tents while the other two and Malachi charges at me with a scream. 

I throw up defensive spells, I’m lucky there isn’t a mage among them or I know this would be a difficult fight. I incapacitate the other two fairly quickly, but it is the rogue that gives me trouble. She appears and disappears quickly, weaving through Malachi’s attacks. I am too close to them and I can’t efficiently use my magic.

“You’re definitely not some boy,” Malachi cackles, swinging his sword wildly as the rogue fights with sophistication. I’m overwhelmed. I haven’t fought opponents like this before—a team. I try not to glance over my shoulder, looking for Bull and Sera. I wonder if the rogue had gotten to them first. 

Malachi kicks his leg out and it catches me in the chest. I fall backwards, the worst that could happen at the moment. I raise my staff horizontally as Malachi brings his sword down, it clashes with the staff and I send electricity through it. That momentarily stuns him, allowing me to get up. I put some distance between myself and Malachi. But I forget the rogue and it costs me a slash to arm. It’s a big cut—that much I can see, but I feel no pain. 

I scream, blasting a defensive barrier, it pushes the rogue back and she hisses at me. While I’m safe inside, I build my mana and as soon as the barrier fizzles out, I pour all my magic into a storm spell. It crackles to life from the staff and sends a surge of electricity towards Malachi and the rogue—wherever she is. But I did too much and the spell bounces back to me, knocking me out. 

I clutch at my stomach, feeling the last of the electricity trickle out of my body. I am lucky it wasn’t as strong when it hit me, because when I sit up, Malachi and the rogue aren’t moving, smoke coming from their bodies. 

I gasp as I try to get up. It doesn’t happen as the pale man pushes me back down with his foot. 

“So is the Inquisitor is hiring little kids to fight in a war now?” His tone is bored, black eyes looking past me. “Well, I suppose we can’t help it.” He sighs and steps on my throat. 

I claw at his boot, trying to push him off. He does this slowly, I know this because if he had stomped on me, it would have killed me immediately. Yet, this man, he takes his time, and when I see a smile break from his face, I understood he enjoyed it this way. “Bull!” I try to shout, but my voice comes out strangled. 

My eyes fall open and close, fluttering and desperate. I scratch at the pale man’s leg. It does nothing. 

Then his face contorts, that smile still plastered on his face. It takes a moment, then I heard it—the whiz of an arrow and a second arrow sticks out of the man’s throat. When the pale man falls, I don’t even move. I take deep, panicked breaths. I clutch at my staff on one hand and my robes on the other. 

“I thought you said you could take them all?” Sera gingerly prods me in different places. “Hm, I think you’re fine.”

“He probably only thought there were four,” Bull grunts. He sits me up—it hurt—and hands me a flask of water. “Didn’t see the rogue lurking around, did you?” 

I nod, happily drinking water too fast, I choke. “Thank you.” I mutter. Finally, I notice the cut on my arm, it isn’t as big as I thought it would be. It’s long, but not very deep. It even stopped bleeding. 

“Yikes,” Sera whistles after inspecting the wound. “You’re in big trouble Bull, the Inquisitor is going to tear you a new one and not in the way you like.” 

Bull ignores her, but stands me up. “So, do you think you’re ready for battle?” 

I say nothing, because I don’t want to admit it outloud. Still, seeing Bull’s face and Sera’s smug expression, they all know it. I’m not ready. If I can’t fight well against two people without using up all my magic, I would be useless on the battlefield. A burden. And I can’t let that be.

 

++

 

“Marek,” the Inquisitor hovers his hands through my hair and arms. His golden eyes move quickly, looking me over. He runs his thumb over the bruises on my face. The cut on my arm had been dressed, but he takes it off and checks that too. When he’s satisfied, he sighs deeply, the panic on his face changes into relief. The Inquisitor lays his forehead on my shoulder, “what would I have done if Bull and Sera were not there?"

"I'm sorry," I say, even though it sounds so empty.

The Inquisitor looks me in the eyes, golden eyes boring into me. Quietly, carefully, he speaks softly for only me to hear.

"Do not make me mourn for you too.”

The Inquisitor thinks Father is dead. He has accepted it, and with that, I wholeheartedly do too.

So I cry. Like a child, thick tears fall from my face. I look undignified, but I cry loudly. The Inquisitor takes me in his arms and holds me until I calm. I remember what Father had said once before. 

“He is the sun.”

For the first time, I understood it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Was almost going to be a long ass chapter, but I cut it down to two parts.  
> +If you forgot, Aldred Asker is Marek's biological father (see chapter 1).  
> Things I enjoyed writing:  
> +The Inquisitor admitted that he believes Dorian is dead too.  
> +Us learning that Marek has sort of held on to some tiny little hope that Dorian was alive--squashed by the Inquisitor. lol.  
> +I like crying Marek.  
> +Marek is a confirmed pretty boy


	11. Winter, An Enchantress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small party from the Inquisition sets out to Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick edit--will edit more tomorrow. Maybe.
> 
> Update 11/7: OMG. What a mess of a chapter. I finally edited.

**|| Winter, an Enchantress**

**|| Fifteen**

 

“How are those tutors treating you?” Cassandra crosses her arms and leans against the half wall encircling the training grounds. “Is it enough?”

She’s teasing, she knows fully well how it’s going. “It’s hard.” I continue stretching, reaching down towards my feet. “The masters had to heal me a couple of times. I don’t think my father ever pushed me this hard.”

Cassandra shrugs, “when he was training you, it was to control your powers.” Her face is hard and unreadable, but for a moment, it drops from her face. “Now, you’re training for war."

I am training to kill—as is the enemy. 

"They would not hesitate to hurt a kid like you." Cassandra continues. "In the battlefield, everyone is equal." 

I shudder to think of it. At the camps, it is never forgotten there is a war being fought. Some soldiers come back in victory and the camp would be filled with song and drinking. Some soldiers come back defeated and our healers try to save who they can. And there are some days where soldiers don’t return at all.

It was easy to say I wanted to fight, but harder still to be in the fray. Yet, the thought of fighting alongside the Inquisitor is always in the back of my mind. For what, I’m not sure myself. Perhaps to continue a legacy. Perhaps revenge. 

“Will I be ready soon?” I look to Cassandra.

“It’s not for me to decide,” she says and ruffles my hair. She is right of course, the Inquisitor would have to approve of my progress. Even then, he has been protective of me. Just last night, he lectured me on my stances and had me spar with Bull. I can't help but think the Inquisitor treats me like his own, he doesn't mean to—I don't think. But he feels obligated—I am his lover's son after all, what else is left of Father but me?

Cassandra ruffles my hair again, taking me out of my thoughts. “Let's talk of more pleasant things."

"Very little things are right now," I say, fixing my hair.

"Well, maybe this will be one of the little things." Cassandra smiles, "You are leaving for Orlais early tomorrow morning.”

 

++

 

It has been a long time since I was in Val Royeaux.

The last time I was here, the political climate was tense—at least, it’s what Father had said after we got back to Minrathous. Now, Bull tells me it has been resolved and a new leader has been chosen to lead. It’s easy to see the new leader’s influence. Val Royeaux looks much grander and dangerous. The royal blues and pure whites have been removed. Deep purples, gold, and black decorate the square and sigils of the most powerful families are embroidered into tapestries for everyone to see. As if to say there is more to Orlais than the game.

I find it breathtaking—a true rival to Minrathous’ own magnificence and power.

“We’ll be meeting the top boss in a moment,” Bull nudges me, grinning. We walk up the step of a palace. “Don’t let that Tevinter wit get you in trouble.”

I grimace, “I was born in the Free Marches.” I had no wit to speak of.

"What kind of Marcher folk talks like a Vint? I even hear you talk in Tevene in your sleep!" Bull shakes his head, smiling. 

“Raised like a little lord in Tevinter,” The Inquisitor stands next to me, he’s smiling, so I know he says it in jest. I blush. I can't look him directly. Ever since I cried like a child in front of him, our relationship has changed—for the better, I hope, but it's been hard for me to chance my demeanor towards him completely. “I have a feeling your Tevinter wit would be appreciated.” He pats my back.

When we arrive at the hall, it’s even grander and far bigger than the hall in the Pavus Manor. I gape around, listening to our footsteps echo through the hall.

“Oh, my dearest Inquisitor,” a woman approaches us with her arms open wide, horns on her head—a headdress, I realize a second later. Her dress is beautiful, white adorned in golden clasps with a collar that accentuated her neck. Even more beautiful is her face—hard and pointed and sophisticated. In a strange way, she reminds me of Vinaeres—I have not thought of her in a long time. My heart saddens at the memories.  

The Inquisitor reaches out to kiss the hand she extends “How are you darling?” The woman sighs deeply.

“Better,” The Inquisitor smiles, it’s a tired one. “How are _you_ , Vivienne?” I remember her name being mentioned here and there in Tevinter. Father had talked fondly of her before. 

“I’m doing quite well for myself, Inquisitor.” She walks over to Bull and puts a hand to his chin, “brutish as usual, Bull?”

“You know it, ma’am.” He squeezes her hand for a moment before letting it go. Finally, she notices me and raises an eyebrow. I keep myself from flinching when she smiles at me.

“And who do we have here?”

“Marek Pavus—,” I glance at Bull and the Inquisitor, “ma’am.”

She runs her cold fingers through my hair, “Marek Pavus, Dorian’s heir and mentee.” Her eyes darkens, “I’m very sorry for your lost, young one. Dorian was a dear friend and a talented mage, his lost is felt even here.”

I avoid her gaze, part of me feels she’s not sincere, but I was taught to be polite, “thank you.”

“Now, follow me, I know you’re here on business and I won’t keep you any longer.” As we follow, she stops and puts a hand on my shoulder, “wait here, darling. The information I’m passing on is far too sensitive for a young one like you.”

I glance at the Inquisitor and he just nods. A few weeks ago, I would have complained, but I know what is at stake. I bow to Madame Vivienne and watch the three of them disappear behind a door.

 

++

 

I’ve taken it upon myself to explore while the Inquisitor and Bull does business. I look through the stores and almost feel at home. I’ve been wearing rags for so long now, and how I wish to get covered in silks and velvet once again. If Vinaeres were here, she would chastise me for wanting such useless things during a war. And I would tell her, wanting things isn’t bad.

I don’t try to walk into any of the stores, I know they would shoo me away before I could even put one foot into the door. Instead, I peer from where I am. I spot robes in a corner store, it is similar to the fashion in Tevinter—black and gold, with green embroidery around the collar. Father, I think, would have liked it. I shake my head, clearing it from fantasies and continue my walk. I follow along the alleyways, turning here and there. After some time, I find myself at a fishermen dock, some had already come back, moving their catch into baskets.

“Did the sea provide today,” I ask one of the men closer to me, he spares me a glance and nods.

“Aye,” he wipes his forehead, groaning as he stands up straight. “The Maker must be in a good mood, because them winds be battering our boats but I still got me a good haul!”

“Is it difficult?” I move closer, peeking inside the baskets. Now that I’m closer, I see how pretty the fish are. Part of me even feels sad that they would be eaten.

The man laughs, “if you want to chat, why don’t you come help me and see for yourself?”

I do as he asks, lifting the baskets of fish and moving them to make space for the man. “Will you sell all of these this morning?”

“No,” the man huffs, picking up a particularly heavy basket, I come around to help him. “Thank you—no, some I’ll sell, but a good portion I’ll be bringing to the outskirts. A lot of poor people not getting food in this time.” He sighs, shaking his head.

I remember the feeling of being hungry, I had lived like a rat before I met Father. “Would you like some help delivering it to them, sir?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” the man frowns, probably feeling suspicious.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I take a step back. “I am with the Inquisition—I was told to wait for the Inquisitor and I have nothing else to do.”

The man looks me up and down, “You seem too young to be with the Inquisition.”

“I am,” I say to be polite—and to thwart rumors that the Inquisition forces children to fight for them. “But I am an exception.”

“Ah,” he raises his eyebrows. Too many bad rumors have gone around in the past.

I see the misunderstanding in his eyes, so I continue. “I am Dorian Pavus’ heir, he—!”

“Save it,” the man puts a hand up, looking around. “You should have told me right away, it’s not safe for fancy people like you to be around here.”

“Sorry,” it’s the second time I’ve apologized.

“No, I don’t mean to be rude, Lord Pavus,” he smiles. “But it’s the truth. After what happened in Minrathous, there had been a lot of people on the lookout for noble Tevinter families. There was a Pertinax girl who was dragged out of the streets and murdered right in the middle of the square. The man who did it didn't care for his life. Those men can be thwarted easily by someone like you, I'm sure—but they've got nothing left to lose. Or worse, prepared to make the sacrifice to make his point." He leans in to whisper, "they're everywhere in Val Royeaux." 

It had been a suspicion that Tevinter families were being hunted down. I will let Josephine know, that she may relay it to Divine Victoria. “Thank you for the warning, sir.” I bow to him, I think it best to leave—lest the man gets suspected of aiding a Vint. “May the Maker keep blessing you today and every day, sir.”

“Wait,” the man walks towards a bucket where two fish swims in circles. "I was going to give this to Madame Vivienne as a gift—they're a rare catch and very beautiful." 

I am honestly surprised. “No need sir!”

The man shakes his head, wiping his hands on his pants. He picks up brown parchment paper and twine. I watch the man skillfully wrap the fish and secure it together. “Here,” he hands it to me. “It’s yours. Just make sure you let everyone know that Werner’s fish is the best.”

“Thank you,” I say, holding the fish with two hands.

It’s a very nice gesture, and my heart thrums with the hope that there are good men who helps those in need.

 

++

 

The Inquisitor has presented me with one of the greatest of opportunities as a mage, yet, I still could not believe it. Madame Vivienne stands before me, her staff by her side and a smile on her face. “I’ve heard from Ry’del that you’re quite talented.”

“I’ve been told my fire burns quite hot.” I swing my staff, “And I’m a fast learner.” Father taught me not to undersell myself.

“Let’s hope that's true then,” she’s behind me, whispering in my ear. I feek a shudder go down my spine. Had she used fade step? _This_ was what the Inquisitor had been talking about. Winter powers so succinct, I won’t feel or see it coming. I swing around and try to put distance between us, but again, she’s behind me.

I run a fire wall behind me, to keep her from fade stepping there and prepare myself for the defense. When she sends lightning my way, I dodge it all, my body moves from its training. I can feel a smile on my lips as I get into the rhythm. I charge towards her, following spell after spell, but simple defensive magic renders them useless. As I near her, I recall my training with Bull, and thrust my staff like a spear, swinging it down. If I can’t get her with magic, I will bring her down like a soldier. But Madame Vivienne is not a Grand Enchanter for nothing, she is an angry sea with her jagged steps and harsh movements. Then she changes again, now, she is water, moving fluidly between cast spells.

“Darling, darling,” she laughs. “Stop trying, I thought Dorian would have taught you better.”

“I have no talent in Winter magic.” Father has taught me not to oversell myself either. I conjure a barrier around the both of us and engulf it in flames. I had been working on theory for a while, realizing I tend to get caught up inches within enemies. Why not trap them and burn them? It works like a fire wall spell, but bent in a different way. I admit, however, that it takes much more mana and stamina from me.

“This is good,” Madame Vivienne smiles, her calmness irritates me. She tries to take a step towards me, but I place a mine to separate us. “Ah,” she says, stopping. The hem of her robe catches on fire, but she moves her hand in one fluid motion and the fire fizzles out.

“Fire and quick thinking is what I’m good at.” I grin wickedly. It _must_ have surprised her. Winter spells have always been weaker than Inferno spells.

“Yes, it definitely is.” She nods. “But it’s the only thing you understand.” She steps back, into the fire and out of the barrier. In my shock, I drop my magic, the fire is doused and before I know it, Madame Vivienne is in front of me. She swings pure, solid magic towards me and I yell, closing my eyes. My staff clatters to the floor of the ballroom and then silence. When I open my eyes, Madame Vivienne is standing straight, a small smile on her lips. I’m tired, my legs shaky, and I’m out of breath. Holding the barrier took a lot more than I bargained.

“Your mana reserves are deep and your stamina is good.” She walks towards me and taps the floor with her staff. “Pick that up.” When I do, she takes my chin and brings it up until I meet her gaze. “Your father taught you a great deal, he always was so flamboyant with his magic. You enjoy it as he does, and you think like him. _But_ , Dorian must have been holding back when training you. Have you ever sparred with him?”

“Plenty of times,” I ignore the sting I feel on my arm—I must have burned myself by accident. Having Madame Vivienne notice would be embarrassing, so I don’t flinch.  

She stares me up and down, “and how did it feel when you fought him?”

“I...don’t know?” I’m not sure what she’s asking. I avoid her gaze.

“Did you feel as exhausted as you do now?"

I try to remember. Father never cast spells when we sparred. He stayed on the defensive, moving only when necessary. I always lost to him, but I never felt exhausted as I did now. Although, part of me was also trying to show off to Madame Vivienne. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, Dorian,” Madame Vivienne sighs. She looks back to me, the same insincerity from earlier reading on her face. “It’s a pity you didn’t get a chance to see your father fight with the full extent of his magic. Even I admit it was powerful, beautiful, and devastating. And so very precise. _You_ , on the other hand, may bear his name...but you’re chaotic, impulsive, and…” she raises an eyebrow, “tragic in dress.” I scowl, Grand Enchanter or not, if all I am getting from Madame Vivienne is a lecture, I’d rather be training with Bull.

“Yet,” she pushes my hair from my face, “your potential is sparkling. Dorian truly lives on in you.”

This time, I see her sincerity, etched in eyes. She holds me, arms length away, eyes looking far too closely. My face gets hot. “While you are here, I can teach you the basics of the other schools of magic. It is my belief that you would never fully master them, but I could teach you to be competent in them.”

“You would teach me?” Surely, she has better things to do.

“For the time being,” Madame Vivienne smiles, pleased with herself. “It’s positively dull around here anyway. We could get you new robes, one more befitting to the Pavus name. Or teach you some better mannerisms? Perhaps finer things would rub off on the Inquisition and we’d be taken much more seriously than we do now.”

I wonder if Madame Vivienne and Father were close friends, perhaps she misses him as well.

She tilts my head up, “Dorian is a necromancer, but you fight like a warrior.”

“I’ve been told that before,” I murmur.

“You are young, but have you considered becoming a knight-enchanter?” She puts her arm around me and we walk towards the drawing room.

I haven’t considered it, I have always thought of following in Father’s footsteps. “A knight-enchanter?”

“Yes,” When we sit, she calls on her servants and they serve us tea. “You would have great advances in it, I am sure.”

“You would be sponsor me,” I ask, thumbs fidgeting.

She stares for a moment, “No, I don’t have time to sponsor you. All I’m doing is suggesting.” She sips her tea slowly. “Also, you move too much of a brute for me to teach you knight-enchanter magic.”

I couldn’t disagree, “why a knight-enchanter?”

“You swing your staff around like a sword, and your attacks work better in close quarters. Foster that, and you’d be deadly.” She leans back in her seat, arms spread on the cushions. “You’d be more than ready for any war.”

Madame Vivienne stands to leave, “also, you’d be wise to ask the Inquisitor for help in his spare time. Your father was beautiful in the battlefield, but when they fought side by side, it was truly dazzling.”

She gives me another smile, "now, go get your burn taken care of." 

 

++

 

We  make camp at the outskirts of Val Royeaux. The Inquisitor had refused several offers to have him stay as guests at lavish estates. I agree. It would be wrong for him when his men slept in the mud.

After Madame Vivienne’s suggestion, I watch the Inquisitor carefully, seeing how he looks while he trains. I’ve been training with Bull and it didn’t look like anything the Inquisitor was doing. Bull once described his method as calculated chaos—a vanguard to the Inquisitor, a protector, but an effective aggressor if need be. It makes sense. The Inquisitor rarely defends, instead, he is risky and bold. He goes for the strongest first, closing the gap to incapacitate his enemy. He twists and turns, never staying in the same spot for more than seconds. It’s quick and aggressive. I can only imagine how it would look like in actual battle. And I could only dream how it looked when he and my Father fought side by side. He moves my passion, so I decide that I could only be a knight-enchanter.

 

++

 

I go to him one night, when he relaxes by the fire.

“Ry’del,” this is the first time I say his name. It embarasses me, but the name is easy to say. Even he looks at me in shock.

“Yes?” He is careful, watching. Like I’ve said, his emotions read easily on his face—and it pleases me he looks happy. I start to see little similarities between Father and him.

“Vivienne said something interesting.” I wring my fingers, my own nerves fidgeting, unsure how to ask. “She said I move like a warrior.”

Ry’del stares in thought, “yes, I’ve noticed.”

“Yes,” I nod. “And she thinks I would do well as a knight-enchanter.”

He sits up straight. “Would like me to get you a sponsor?” 

I look away, "um, yes."

"Of course, I'll have someone look into it right away." In the time I have watched him, I understand slowly, why Father loved him. Everyone knew Ry'del as the Inquisitor. Kind but steadfast and calculating. He understand war and would do what is needed for the greater good. But in private moments, like now, when he sheds that title and be the elf from the Free Marches, he is quiet, warm, almost shy. He's different. I think how I prefer  _this_ version of him, and how the other is forced upon him.

"Also, I was wondering," I look him straight in the eyes, I know what he will say, "if you would train me in your style of fighting.”

“Oh,” he says, I think he feels embarrassed. “Are you sure?”

“They tell me you and Father were a sight in the battlefield,” his face sinks when I mention Father. “So, yes. I am sure.”

He puts a hand to my shoulder and nods. “I…” he looks away, almost dazed. “I am honored, Marek.”

We share stories that night, laughing at the small memories we remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Cassandra made sure the tutors would be brutal.  
> +I took some liberty with the spell casting. IDK if what Marek did is possible, but I sort of thought about it like how younger people see things differently, or they innovate.  
> +So, maybe Marek's actual skill is in Inferno spells and being innovative.  
> +BUT, he's still not that good that he can hurt himself if he gets carried away.


	12. Mage, a Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek learns the bitterness of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to finally finish this chapter. I really struggled. And I just...sigh. Enjoy.
> 
> Will edit after I get back from an errand. Haha--tried to finish before I set off!

**|| Mage, A Dreamer**

**|| Sixteen**

I use to pride myself in seeing the good in people. I trusted that Dorian Pavus was a good man, and made my way to Tevinter. That blind trust got me to where I am today—Dorian Pavus’ only son and heir. As far as I am concern, the day I stepped into the Pavus Manor was the day I was reborn.

My blind trust had given me Father. And Ry’del.

But I am not so naive to trust everyone. Some exude an aura of filth—oozing with the aim to hurt and destroy. Some wear this untrusty film on their skin, like a badge of honor and pride. And some have it in their veins, hiding under pretty smiles. While their insides rot, they perfume themselves with flowers.

Or the sharp smell of sea and fish. Toiling away like a man who does hard work for the people.

Werner, the fisherman on the dock, who I believed was a good man, had attempted to poison Madame Vivienne by gifting her beautiful, rare fish coated in his finest poison.

When I learned of this, I felt sick to my stomach and ran towards the docks. And there, I saw them, two children, not much younger than me, slumped over each other with dead rats at their feet.

I had given them the fish when they begged for food. If only I hadn’t, they would still be alive.

Then, the second revelation had come. The poison was meant for me.

The nightmares started that night. They came in droves, one after the other, stealing my rest. When I wake, I remember nothing but the fear and dread it strikes into me. It is a darkness that smothers and envelopes, leaving me in a cold sweat, gasping for air.

It has happened every night and continues on until this day.

I keep the nightmares to myself. Knowing the others, they would worry themselves needlessly, keeping them from important matters. Especially Ry’del. How could I let him see me suffer? He has more important matters to attend to—that and I fear his concern is born only from being Father’s lover. It’s not fair, I know, to judge Ry’del like that, but what’s left of Marek Asker of the Free Marches is the one that forces me to judge.

To hide the darkness under my eyes, I start wearing kohl as Father did. A tribute, I humor myself, to the late Dorian Pavus. Ry’del says I look like him—empty compliments, I think, but others say the same.

 

++

 

“Leliana’s spies in Tevinter report that Solas has not dispatched soldiers to target the leaders of the Inquisition.” Cassandra clears of the war table and bitterly repositions the tokens. “She’s quite confident Solas has no hand in the Mien’harel—at least not directly.”

Ry’del picks up one of the tokens, “an apt name, isn’t it? The Rebellion.” He sighs, placing the token east of Nevarra. “They’ve started calling Solas the Ghil-Dirthalen.”

“And praised like a god,” Cassandra spat.

“Which makes them even more dangerous.” Ry’del puts his hand on his chin. The Mien’harel, with no direct connection with Fen’Harel himself has already proven themselves to be capable. The attack in Minrathous proves it.

The Inquisition’s allies are now only starting to mobilize—after the attempt on Madame Vivienne’s life, threats against Divine Victoria and House Pentaghast were discovered.

“So far, we’ve got Vivienne in Orlais, and Leliana was moved somewhere undisclosed.” Cassandra moves the pieces on the war table. “Important members of the Pentaghast’s have been relocated to Val Chevin, south of Nevarra—but sources say it has been empty threats so far.”

“Still, let’s offer support and send a small party.” Ry’del says.

“I doubt anything is going to happen to Bull and Sera, but it’s good to let them know to keep an eye out.” He puts their tokens aside.

“They’re headed towards the Hissing Wastes to investigate the Inquisition stocks,” I speak up and they look at me, as if surprised that I am in the room. “Could that be a trap?”

Ry’del looks over the map again, “if so, they can handle it. Bull used to be Ben-Hassrath and Sera is a Red Jenny—also, the threats against them have been low, compared to the ones with titles.”

“We need to keep the Inquisition’s presence felt all around Thedas,” Ry’del says. “Perhaps it would keep the Mien’harel at bay.”

“Or draw them out,” Cassandra interjects.

“Then we prepare for that too.” Ry’del says it so simply, but that is the reality of war. We prepare for what we can and make up the rest. “Cassandra, you will take the east with Cullen.”

“Letters need to be sent out,” Cassandra frowns, rubbing her forehead. “Blackwall is in Weissshaupt and still no letters come from there. Should we risk sending a raven?”

“Send the raven to Varric in Kirkwall, he will know how to get in touch with Blackwall.” Ry’del says, putting the last tokens on the map. He looks at me, “are you ready for what’s to come, Marek?”

I pick up the token meant for Father—the Pavus crest. “House Pavus,” I run my thumb across the sigil and place it on the map, next to Ry’del’s. “I’m staying with you.”

Ry’del brow raises and even Cassandra stops and glances back and forth between us. “Yes, of course. I had not thought otherwise.”

I nod, determination swelling through me. “I’m ready.”

“Once Orlais and Ferelden backs the Inquisition in this war, it will get worse than it is now.” Ry’del says this quietly, as if he is warning me. I know this. War is nothing to be excited about, but the thirst for avenging Father grows stronger still.

“I will be ready,” I insist, but I know Ry’del is not convinced.

 

++

 

It goes like this.

I wake up from my night terror and when I try to remember, nothing comes to me. My stomach feels awful and my heart is racing. I don’t understand what I am feeling, so I cry.

How many nights now has this happened? Too many to count.

On this day, I do not go back to sleep, fearful of what may come in my dreams. Instead, I walk the camp—it is still dark and the sun won’t be coming up for a few more hours.

“Lord Pavus,” one of the scouts greets me.

“The wolves are out in droves,” I say, looking to the full moon.

The scout nods, “aye, don’t wander too far.”

“I won’t,” I lie, staff in hand. It has become a habit to hunt what I can in the woods.

I pretend I am slaying my demons.

 

++

 

Ry’del stares at scrolls and letters littered on his desk.

“I can explain,” I say quickly and he puts his hand up.

“Say nothing,” he says evenly and tempered. “Right now, you will listen.” He looks up and when his eyes meet mine, I shiver. Ry’del stands and leans forward, hand spread on the desk. “What you did was reckless and foolish.”

“What does it matter? I bring home the pelts to stock the camp.” I suddenly feel defensive. This feeling is far too familiar. “And wolves are no challenge.”

Ry’del’s face is angry, twisted—I’ve never seen him so angry. “ _What does it matter?_ ” He repeats, voice low.

“What does it matter that I hunt a couple of wolves?” I say this higher and louder than I mean for it to be.

“That’s not the point.”

“And Bull has trained me. Madame Vivienne has trained me— _you’ve_ trained me.” I’m almost breathless. With every word I say, I know I am in the wrong, but I stubbornly force it. “If you won’t let me fight with you then at least—!”

“THAT. IS. NOT. THE. POINT.” Ry’del bellows, eyes burning hotter than the sun. I gasp, stepping back, almost tripping on my feet. He regrets his reaction immediately and puts his hand over his face. He tilts his head up and sighs deeply. “Today, it will be wolves. Tomorrow, it could be spies. And the day after that, it could assassins. What would you do then? Against people who would try their hardest to kill you? What would I do if we find your body in the woods?” Ry’del looks at me, eyes red. “I know you value your life, tell me you do.”

I am what is left of Dorian Pavus. I understand his anger, so I look away, embarrassed, “I do.”

“Tell me you do not seek death.” He says this quietly and it makes my stomach ache. “Please.”

“I do not seek death.” I swallow the lump in my throat. I feel his pain, because it swells in me too.

“Whatever it is you’re running away from,” Ry’del’s face falls and he takes a deep breath, “know that I am here to help—if you would have it.” I bite my tongue, trying to keep myself from crying. He ruffles my hair and gives another sigh. “Go see Atven, your wounds are not serious, but they need to be dressed.”

 

++

 

“Ah, so my brother has found out about your late night walks.” Atven tends to my wounds in the medical tent, “and you got scolded for it and cried before coming here, didn’t you?” He waves his hands in front of his eyes.

I wince when he covers my wound with a poultice, “I didn’t cry.” I mutter under my breath. “Did you tell him?”

“Tell him what? That my _older_ brother’s lover’s _sixteen year old_ son with _some_ training is going out into the _woods_ to hunt while there is a _target_ behind his back? Maker, _no_. I would never.” All he needed to do was roll his eyes and his sarcasm would be more than palpable. He smothers my arms with an ointment, soothing my aching muscles immediately.

I purse my lips, “he really told me off this time.”

Atven smiles, wrapping a bandage around my wrist, “if I were him, I would have done the same. Worse, really. I would have thrown you back into the woods.” He finishes up the last of my small cuts with ointments and gives me a small dose of an elfroot potion—our medical stocks have been low, so this is a luxury. “There,” he says, “not good as new, but you should be fully healed in a day or two.”

“I’m feeling better already,” I jump up and inspect his work. There is still some soreness around my shoulders, but I can feel the elfroot potion working. And of course, it is as good as always. Atven is the Inquisition’s best healer—at least, that is what I think. I have never seen someone so calm in the face of screaming soldiers with arms and legs falling off, or worse.

“Thank you, Atven.” I say, peeking out of the tent to see the sun breaking over the treeline.

I am about to leave when Atven stops me, “you know, I know Ry’del is overprotective. And you won’t enjoy being scolded when he’s mad,” he sighs. “Just know that—this thing that you do, he understands—better than anyone, I think.”

 

++

 

The camp is quieter without the others, but it’s busier. I spend my days training endlessly with Annalise, an Orlesian mage recommended by Madame Vivienne. She’s effective in her teaching and has me progressing through spells quickly, but we don't stay in one lesson for too long.

“Centralize your energy just a bit more, Marek,” she says, not bothering to look up from her book. She says there is a particular sound that hums through the air when a spirit blade is conjured perfectly. I try the spirit blade again. It forms easily, but is too weak to damage anything.

"Still not working, is it?" she shuts her book and walks towards me. She raises my hand where the spirit blade forms and runs her hand through it. The blade disappears in a flurry and she straightens my arm. "Think of it as an extension of your hand—all magic is, after all, an extension of oneself. If that doesn't work..." she turns my hand over and traces the veins that go up my palm. "Do you see how your veins run through your palm? From your wrist, one extends towards your thumb and index finger. Do you see it?"

I look closely, it's not quite what she says, but I see rivers of them anyway. "I guess?"

Annalise huffs and slaps my palm, "well, I'm trying to help. Anyway, just think it's a manifestation of your own veins. You have to feel it. It's different from holding a sword. It's more like it's a part of you trying to climb out like vines and you're thinking, 'hey! I don't want my veins crawling out of me!' so you do your best to keep it in place and it makes solid pure energy that can cut through enemies."

I stare at her, not sure what she's on about, "alright."

"Something like that." She sighs. "You know, I can teach you all the spells that you want, but the spirit blade is kind of...it's more of a feeling than anything, and it feels different for everyone else."

"Well," I sit down and she sits next to me. "How does it feel for you?"

"Like roots encircling my arm." She says, circling her arm with a finger. "It feels snug and just right. For Vivienne, she said it is like she’s holding onto a glass of water and she throws it at someone's face but before it all falls apart, she freezes it and it becomes like a blade."

I wonder what this would feel for me, “I've been practicing with real swords before my training with you. Can I think of it that way?"

Annalise purses her lips, "you can try, but the feeling is entirely different. Perhaps—Maker! Hold on," her eyes widen, an epiphany reading on her face. "You're not extending enough." She looks at me and holds my face in her hands. "I can't believe I've been neglecting that this whole time."

She stands and pulls me up with her, "a traditional spirit blade is shorter and thinner than a real sword. When you're conjuring it, you're probably trying to copy how mine looks like—instead, you should try making it look like the swords you're use to."

Annalise nudges me forward and nods excitedly, "try it," she says, smiling.

I sigh and roll my shoulders. She hands me a lyrium potion to replenish my mana and I do as she suggested. The concentration I give already feels different. To conjure the broadsword I use, I think of it in my hand, the weight of it, the balance, and magic flows through me slowly but surely. When it materializes, I see it—feel it, it's just right and I get what Annalise means about the sound of a spirit blade. It’s a quiet whisper, a rush of wind. But, it takes more of my magic than usual and it remains only for a few seconds. Casting another one right after takes more time too.

It doesn't matter, however, because Annalise is pleased. She takes my face in her hands again and kisses my forehead. "Yes!" She raises her arms high up and quickly starts taking notes in a piece of parchment. "Annalise Golde, you did it again!"

She gives me another hug and praises me over and over and I blush under her embrace. "Stop," I murmur, not really meaning it. Praises are fun, but embarrassing coming from her.

"Oh," Annalise pushes me away and gives a salute, when I look, Ry'del is standing by the half wall where we are practicing. "Inquisitor, I didn't see you there! Master Marek is progressing so well." She pats my back and pushes me forward. "Show him."

I sheepishly glance at Ry'del. It hasn't been long since he scolded me and we haven't talked much in the past few days. But, he smiles and it's encouraging. I do as I remember and it's the same as before. More mana and takes longer to cast it in succession.

"What an interesting notion," Ry'del says, he hops over the wall and raises my hand to look at it. "Should we see how it would fair against a hunt?"

"Really?" I look at him, the expectation on my face is there, I'm sure.

He smiles, "yes, of course. The scouts found a bear's den. It's causing problems for traders walking that area—if you're up for it."

I nod, "yes, I want to."

He puts a gentle hand on Annalise's shoulder. "Great work, it's truly appreciated."

"It's nothing at all, Inquisitor." Annalise giggles.

"We'll head out early afternoon," Ry'del says. "Be ready then."

Annalise and I watch the Inquisitor leave and when he turns a corner, we look at each other, wide-eyed and excited.

"You have to teach me some more before I go hunting with the Inquisitor!" I demand, reaching for the crate of lyrium potions. "I have to be at my best!"

But Annalise doesn't move, she clasps a hand on her shoulder and groans. "What luck! He touched my shoulder." She leans against me and rubs her face on my shoulder. "The Inquisitor is sort of manly but not at the same time. Like a poet—a warrior poet."

I frown, "Stop that." I say, though it is not the first time someone has expressed admiration for Ry'del, it is still strange to hear it from others.

Annalise sighs softly, "I can't decide if it's the Inquisitor who is the lucky one, or your Father. Because Dorian Pavus is an all kind of different man. Although, I guess they're both your fathers now—" then her face becomes serious, "oh, sorry. I don't mean to speak out of turn." Annalise puts her hands to her mouth, shaking her head.

The thought has crossed my mind before, but for it to be said out loud was something else altogether. "It's alright," I say, putting the staff down and deciding I need some time alone. "Thank you for the lesson today, you really are a great teacher."

Annalise spreads her arms open, "do you want a hug. I'm really sorry."

I grimace. "Yes, sure." Annalise smiles and brings me into her embrace. She did give very good hugs—that and she smells quite nice.

 

++

 

“Is that him?” Someone says in a hushed whisper.

“Yes, yes,” another says excitedly. “Not quite as you imagined, right?”

“Not at all,” there is a huff. “He’s so…”

“Scruffy?”

“Yeah.” More quiet laughter.

“Well, I’ve seen him in his hayday—a real pretty boy.”

“Ah, maybe he just needs to...shave or something.” The giggling is louder now.

Dorian Pavus stops in front of them, giving them his best smile. “Yes, I do need a shave—and a bath and I’ll be the same pretty boy you all want to see.”  

 

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +First of all, I want to apologize because at this point a lot of the story is dealing with some non-canon characters and that's maybe frustrating considering that this is fanfiction. It's just kind of hard to do a lot of canon characters where the Inquisitor is literally someone I created and the main character is a non-canon character written in first person. Then the fact that your boi Dorian is gone, makes it hard to stick to canon characters when it's really a centralized story about father and son.  
> +If you have read (not that anyone really did) Histories of Lavellan, then you know Ry'del's life story. If not...here is a condensed version without spoiling anything else:  
> +When Ry'del was born, some stars aligned and everyone at the camp was like, this guy is going to do awesome things. So he grew up with this pressure to be GREAT. But he's not. He meets Blue Trevelyan and they become friends (PS: Chronicles of a Trevelyan is all about a non-Inquisitor Trevelyan story).  
> +Shit happens.  
> +Then Ry'del was like, I gotta stop running from my responsibilities, and finally does his vallaslin at nineteen and he made it through but oh man, he ran to the forest cried because it hurt then killed a bear. He officially becomes the clan's protector.  
> +Then basically the conclave.  
> +Atven is Ry'del's younger brother. Ry'del has three siblings, Mih'thra (older sister and next Keeper), Atven and Athel (healer and warrior respectively--and twins).  
> +Atven mentions in the chapter than Ry'del understands, what he is referencing is a callback to Histories of a Lavellan.  
> +That said, I want to talk about ages--because I did so much simple math that got confusing. You know what, I hate to say how much time I spend on this, but whatEVER because I am enjoying myself so much. Idk who reads these end notes, but if you have, this is dedicated to you.  
> +At the start of the story: Marek is 9 (9:40), Dorian is 38 (9:11), and Ry'del is 33 (9:16). At this point, Marek is 16, Dorian is 45, and Ry'del is 40. The year is currently 9:56. Dudes, what's up, yeah, the years are calculated out and never mentioned, so I just want to mention them here.  
> +PSYCHE. Your boi Dorian is alive.


	13. Lavellan, an Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and Marek bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *winky face emoji* End notes are just as long as the chapter LOL. But really, it's just me talking about some decisions I've made while writing this. And some sneak peaks into what could be.
> 
> WILL EDIT SOME TIME.

**|| Lavellan, an Honor**

**|| Sixteen**

 

“Quiet, Marek,” Ry’del puts his hand up to still me. “They’re finicky creatures and would run as—”

I move forward and a twig snaps under my step. The ram perks up and as soon as I exhale the breath I was holding, it sprints deeper into the forest. 

“And the chase begins,” Ry’del says, running after the ram. 

I groan. If only I had been patient. This is the worst part of hunting—especially with Ry’del. He believes the first animal you choose should be the one you take down.

“As destined,” he had said, “by Andruil!” 

I chase behind Ry’del and when I catch up, he pulls me down and points to the ram that has finally slowed and stopped to graze. 

“Slowly,” Ry’del says in a low voice. “Make sure you cast something powerful enough.” 

I nod, something quick and as painless as possible. Burning it would damage the ram’s fur, so I choose the next best thing. A storm spell that would stop its heart. I give Ry’del the signal and I start to cast the spell. Ry’del launches forward as I bring down the ram. It quivers for a moment but then lays still.

I run to it. “ _ Ar sul'ema ma lana em enansal. _ ” I mutter, crouching in front of the ram I had taken down moments ago. 

“Fast work,” Ry’del says, inspecting it. “Andruil would be pleased.” 

“Andruil would be pleased.” I repeat.

 

++

 

It has become a habit, to sell or trade the pelts made from my kills. The meat, if we have enough, we sell as well. On this day, I am tasked to barter for herbs. Atven has need for horehounds and knitbone plants—horehounds for the chest aches and knitbone for the swelling in soldier’s limbs. I start setting up our stall, and having sold our wares in this market before, previously satisfied customers flock to us. 

“Three gold coins for the slab?” A man approaches, digging money from his pocket.

“Good sir,” Ry’del smiles, “keep your coin. We’re looking to trade for horehounds or knitbone. If you have neither, dried elfroot would do as well.”

And it goes on like this, slowly but surely, we sell most of the pelts and all of the meat. In total, we received two or three sprigs of the knitbone plant—“we can plant this,” Ry’del had said—and a bundle of horehound. Some had desperately traded spindleweed and blood lotus which Ry’del accepted as well. 

As it has passed midday, Ry’del asks me if I would like to eat at a tavern, “the food won’t be palatable, but at least it’s something.” 

I laugh at this, “is it better than what Cabot calls food?” 

“Worse,” Ry’del grins, slinging the pelts over the horse of a merchant who insisted on buying them. 

“Your father always complained about it, but went with me anyway.” There is a far away look in his eyes, “he said the drinks tasted like piss and didn’t get him drunk fast enough.” 

“I didn’t know he drank.” I say, trying to remember if Father had more than the occasional glass of wine. 

“Everyone was a drunk in those days,” Ry’del sighs. “Even I drank and whored in my youth.” 

I narrow my eyes at him, “ _ you _ _? _  Drank and  _ whored _ _?_ ” I can’t imagine the normally straight faced Inquisitor doing such things. 

He shrugs, “people don’t solve their problems the right way sometimes.” He pats my back—I’ve noticed I’ve grown tall enough to look down when I talk to him. “I was one of those people. Maybe I’m still one of those people.” 

I rub my hand on my neck, “do you miss him?” It’s a stupid question, but I ask it anyway. 

“Hm, yes,” he says, “we’ve been together for a long time, your father and I. And it’s hard not to miss someone as enigmatic as he is.” 

Enigmatic seems to be the right word, I think. “I’ve never asked you,” I start, suddenly nervous. “But are you alright?” 

He says nothing for moments, thinking. Then, “no, not really.” He says this quietly. “Sometimes I think I am, then a fleeting memory comes around and I’m not okay again.” 

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, feeling awful. I had come to understand a long time ago, that Ry’del had lost a lover while I lost a father. We grieved the same things, but I never thought of him as grieving. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he smiles, nudging my arm as we walk. “I’ve never asked you either, how you are feeling.” 

“I like to think I’ve accepted it,” I say truthfully. “But as you said, a fleeting memory visits and suddenly I can’t believe it. How do you cope?”

“Death is a part of this war. Many more will die—people you know, people you don’t know, people you love, people you hate. I can only hope there will be no pain like this for you in the future.” Ry’del says. “But when pain makes a home in your heart, sometimes we must claw it out to make it feel better. You will be left wide open. Then you must heal yourself, but not let yourself harden.” 

I wonder, how many times Ry’del has gone through a pain like this.

  
  


++

 

The food in the tavern is as Ry’del says. Worse than Cabot’s cooking, but was something. 

“Would it be alright to eat again when we get back to camp, I ask, rubbing my belly from dissatisfaction.

Ry’del laughs, nodding. “Of course, I may eat something as well.” He sighs. “Does Annalise know how to cook? Perhaps we can put her in charge of the kitchen from time to time.” 

“She’s terrible!” I say, having had her cooking once. She said it was an old recipe that would help me be strong. The result was pale mush that far too salty for anyone to consume. I was sick for days. 

“You know who can cook really well? Sera. You wouldn’t think it, but she’s very good.” Ry’del says. “But you’d almost have to bribe her to make a meal. I don’t know how she can cook so well and tolerate what we eat at camp.” 

A few more miles from camp and I see two men ahead of us, walking our way. I start to smile and nod towards them at greeting, but one of them purposely knocks shoulders with Ry’del.

“These fucking elves are everywhere.” The man spits at Ry’del’s direction. My anger comes quick, I burn underneath, how  _ dare _ they. I look at Ry’del, and he shrugs the hostility away—as if it didn’t matter. Another man laughs, “this knife-ear won’t talk to you Miller. But get him in bed and he’ll be calling you master soon!” Cacophonous laughter.

I’m hot. Hotter than ever, white sparks at my fingertips. Inside, I am seething.  _ How dare they _ .

“Watch yourself, Marek,” Ry’del whispers at my direction, hand on my shoulder. “They’re drunk, they don’t know what they say.”

“Oh, does the rabbit already have a master?” The man quips and it is the last straw. 

I close the gap between us, my hand around their necks. “Hold your tongues,  _ shemlen _ .” I spit the word at them, as if it’s the most disgusting word I’ve ever said. The men furrow their brows at my use of the elven language. But I want them to see. “You utter another word about my fath—” I stop myself, realizing what I had almost said. 

“Fucking humans mating with elves—what a whore your mother was,” the other says, struggling to speak and makes a crass gesture with his hands. “Maybe I’ll have a go?” 

“ _ Ar tu na’din _ .” My growl is ferocious and I bare my teeth, even I scare myself. The men twist from my grasp, but it’s no use. I am stronger. 

“Marek, stop.” Ry’del warns. He shows exemplary restraint for someone being badmouthed. 

“Let go of me, rabbit lover,” one cries out, but I don’t care. I burn them. My insides are on fire, searing heat on my hands. I watch their burns spread. One passes out from pain and the other is screaming, his flesh melting from my fire. 

“Marek!” Ry’del says, loud and demanding. I let go, watching the man scream and writhe around like a snake. I watch them suffer but Ry’del ends their life with his spear. “Never use those powers to abuse.” He looks hard at me, and for a moment I feel small, but anger calls me back.

“Abuse?” I spat. “They mocked you! How could you let them say that to you?” I demand myself. I shove him—I am frustrated at his calmness, his apathy to injustices towards himself.  

Ry’del ignores my question and instead he stares right at me, “they were drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse.” I say. How could a good day turn so sour?

“You’re hurt.” Ry’del then says.

I don’t understand what he means, until I feel the pain. My palms are burnt and blistered. I look to him for help. It hurt so much. “We can’t leave their bodies here, it’s disrespectful,” Ry’del says, “but we have to dress your wounds. We’ll come back for them later.”

“Come,” Ry’del leads me away from the road, closer to the forest. “We can apply the medicine Atven gave you.” He looks through my knapsack and obtains the green vial. “But it won’t be enough.” 

I nod, staring at my palms. I still don’t understand why I did what I did. All I know, I felt my anger spread through me. I couldn’t let those men say those things about Ry’del. He is a good man, a brave one. “I’m sorry,” I apologize as he spreads the ointment into my palms—soothing them in a cool glow. 

“Sorry for what?” He’s testing me, forcing me to reveal what I did wrong.

“For losing my head. I should have been more careful. I could have—”

“Yes, you could have.” Ry’del interrupts. “But you didn’t and you suffer the consequences. Do you feel better? Seeing them in pain like that?” 

“No,” I admit. 

“The feeling of justice is fleeting, isn’t it?” Ry’del wraps bandages around my palms. “Do not fight for the sake of vengeance, fight for those who will come after.” He looks at me, sun-eyes deep and revealing. “You defended my honor, for that, don’t apologize. For being aimlessly violent, that you can’t apologize for, because the ones you’ve wrongs are dead. Do you understand?” He looks at me and I feel a chill up my spine. His eyes, so golden and warm, are hard and cold. 

I stay silent for a moment while Ry’del tends to my wounds. I have upset him, I know this. I have been less than kind to him in the past. But I was a child then, now, I know better. “I will bury them myself,” I say.

“That is for the best.” Ry’del’s expression is serious. “By the way,” this time, I cannot read the expression on his face. “You have learned more elvish? Your accent is quite good.” 

I blush at the praise, “I thought it would be better to learn since it only seems fair...that I learn the languages of my fathers.” It’s an intimate confession and I feel like hiding from embarrassment.

He looks away but I see his ears turn red, “that’s—I only hope I could be as caring as Dorian was.” 

“You already are.” I say.

 

++

 

“He can’t make it,” Vinaeres wipes the sweat from her brother’s brow. “I don’t want to leave him here either, Lord Pavus, but he’s weak and would ruin our chances of escape.” 

“Do not let this war make you callous,” Dorian scolds, clutching Nikal’s hand in his. “What would your father say?” 

Vinaeres grunts in frustration. “We will miss our opportunity. If you don’t get out of Tevinter by tonight, all our plans and sacrifices are for nothing.” She stands. 

“Sacrifice is not done willingly.” Dorian insists, helping Nikal sit up. “Drink little one,” He tips the elfroot potion into his mouth. It is his sixth one, still, it’s not enough to heal him quickly before his fever worsens again. 

“Do not think I make this choice easily.” Vinaeres says cooly. 

Dorian has seen this before. Some see death and mourn for years, others, like Vinaeres, see death and accepts it as a part of life—whether it happen naturally or before one's time. 

“I do not think that, but you give up too easily.” Dorian rolls up his sleeves. 

“What are you doing?” Vinaeres demands, gripping her staff. 

“We have to take the risk.” Dorian mutters. “Your father would not take the heartbreak.” He builds his mana, preparing to cast a healing spell. It still would not be enough, but it would heal Nikal to the point where he can be treated properly. 

“Stop,” Vinaeres warns. Dorian doesn’t listen, he would not let another Rosenhain die in his hands. Dorian starts to push out his spell, Vinares jerks her hand forward and snaps Nikal’s neck. The boy lays there, eyes wide open as the last of his life leaves his body.

“No!” Dorian drops the spell and holds the boy’s face in his hands. “Sweet child,” he can not help but cry and buries his face into the boy’s hair. 

“Lord Pavus, focus on what is at stake.” Vinaeres breathes. “He had little chance of living. Casting a healing spell would just let Fen’Harel’s soldiers know where we are. Nikal will find mother in the fade.” 

“May the Maker help you, that your stony heart may soften.” Dorian pushes the boy’s hair from his face. 

“I will tell father what has happened here.” She says simply. 

Dorian fears for her, and sees nothing but destruction in her life. 

 

++

 

**|| Seventeen**

 

I am training with Annalise when I hear it.

“Marek,” it is soft voice, but calls me with familiarity. 

I shiver and look. I cry, leaving my staff behind to hop over the half wall. 

Then I run into Ditrik’s welcoming arms. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +This chapter centers around healing and death and how the two things work off each other. We have Marek and Ry'del coming to terms with Dorian's "death." And so now, their healing can begin. On the other hand, we have Dorian and Vinaeres dealing with death and in particular Vinaeres viewing death as something that just is and sees no need to mourn (this will be explored a lot more later on).  
> +This is a much shorter chapter because it was suppose to happen all in chapter 12. However, chapter 12, in my opinion was getting really long and I didn't want too many emotional plot points to be in one chapter (if there are any lol).  
> +I don't know the grammar of Elvhen language, so I took some liberties and basically tried to find words that had (canon or non-canon) translations and tried to make it fit. So...  
> +Ar sul'ema ma lana em enansal loosely means something like....thank you for allowing me this gift. But IDK, it sounds right so, SIGH.  
> +Ar tu na’din means I will kill you. So Marek really did follow through on that didn't he?  
> +I don't know if I have mentioned this, but this story has been drafted from beginning to end, so a lot of the things happening has been planned since the beginning.  
> +However, I wanted to say that the part with the two men and Marek has been one of the OLDEST parts planned. I probably wrote it when I wrote the first draft of the chapter. There were some changes here and there, because pathway towards the plot has changed a little bit.  
> +Fun fact, the whole bit with Dorian wasn't suppose to happen so soon. In actuality, he had the Inquisitor take Marek around Ferelden for fun and that's how they end up together, but the one now I think created more tension between Marek and the Inquisitor.  
> +Vinaeres has been described as a warrior mage through and through. Obviously, her mother has died in the past two years we don't hear and now, her brother Nikal dies as well. Their scene is small, Dorian and Vinaeres, but I think it reveals a lot. You guys are all smart, so I'll leave it like that and you can figure it out for yourself what I am trying to sat there.  
> +Ry'del did whore around--but not in the way he implies it. But he did have two serious partners Aklios (human male mage that was kind of abusive and laced his "touches" with healing spells and Shaeren (elf female mage who left him to study in Orlais).  
> +horehound and knitbone are real plants. I wanted medicinal herbs that isn't just elfroot.  
> +Marek and the Inquisitor's relationship is a weird one. On one hand, they are getting along, but on the other hand, they still don't really talk about what's going on in their lives. So a lot of times they have to guess. I wish they would talk more, but Ry'del, I imagine, is feeling more like an outsider in terms of Dorian and Marek's relationship and he feels it's wrong for him to just worm his way into it--especially now that Dorian is gone. However, with how things are now though, maybe things will get better (ha! don't you love how I talk about this as if I don't know what's going to happen!!!???)  
> +Ditrik coming back was also planned since the beginning, I mean, I did kind of hint at it a few chapters back--ahhh I feel like this is a pretty big hint too. But let's just say there had been MANY MANY MANY drafts and pathways this part of the story may go. I'm really leaning in on one that I would LOVE to write but doesn't make sense in terms of the situation and everything. Ugggh I'll just talk more about it when we get there.  
> +Oh, I looked up the reason for why people died with their eyes wide open, they say it's due to fear. Sit on that for a minute.  
> +Lastly, yo, you guys know the story is set to finish when Marek turns 21? So we're almost there. So far, this is the layout--but of course it could change, 17y.o (one chapter), 18y.o (two chapters), 19y.o (one chapter), 20y.o (one chapter), and 21y.o (one chapter), then an epilogue ala Dragon Age Inquisition style. So about seven chapters left. We are so close!!!!


	14. Roses, a Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop and smell the roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I better at updating in the past few days? Because I'm so close and want to get it finished. However, this will probably be one of the last quick updates in a while because I gotta return to work and that's going to drain me and leave me with needing DAYS to recuperate. 
> 
> This chapter is structurally different. And ugh. Read the end-notes if you wanna hear me complaining.

**|| Roses, a Sacrifice**

**|| Fourteen**

 

He’s being drag through stone and dirt, Dorian thought. The man who pulled him out of the rubble grunts and calls his name.

“Magister Pavus!” There was screaming and wailing. It felt so hot. “Magister Pavus, can you stand?”

Dorian shook himself from his disorientation and sat up. “Yes, yes,” he said, his hearing muffled.

“Can you fight?” another question and Dorian struggled to stand.

“Yes,” he said, partly lying. He knew he was going to pass out any moment, but a staff is shoved at him.

“Your left!” The man roared and Dorian moved clumsily, casting a lazy spell towards his left. One more spell and Dorian felt himself tip over.

“I think,” Dorian slurred. “I think this is my limit.”

“Magister Pavus! Dorian!”

Blurry images flashed with every attempt to open his eyes.

Smoke. “Get the magister to safety! Quickly!”

Rubble. “Watch the front! Watch the front!”

Fire. “Get back!”

Then darkness took him, and Dorian, despite fighting it, let himself be taken.

When he opened his eyes, Lady Rosenhain stared at him with her eyes wide. “What—?” He started to say, but she covered his mouth with her hand and raised a finger to her lips.

Dorian felt the rocking of the caravan and the screaming happening around them. He nodded at Lady Rosenhain and saw that Nikal and Vinaeres are there too. Dorian tried to sit up but pain spreads through him. His hand instinctively clamps down on his stomach and sees he is bleeding. He gathered his mana to heal himself but Vinaeres reached over and shook her head, instead she handed him an elfroot potion and he drank it quickly.

They sat in the caravan in silence, listening to the sounds of battle slowly disappear.

“Are we safe?” Nikal said in a small voice. Poor child, Dorian thought, so young and ravaged by war.

“Not yet, sweet one,” Lady Rosenhain embraced him. Vinaeres peaked out of the caravan as it jolted to a stop.

“Something is wrong,” Vinaeres said. “There are men on the road.”

Dorian shifted in his spot, searching for his staff. Vinaeres handed it to him and readied hers as well. The Imperial Highway is the fastest way out of Minrathous, but it is the most dangerous one as well.

“Let us through,” Alphonse barked, Dorian heard the tension in his voice.

“What’s in the caravan?” 

“None of your business,” Alphonse alighted from the carriage, sword in hand. “Are you from Tevinter?”

“We are."

“Then you know who I am. Leave us be and there won’t be trouble.”

Laughter, “typical of the Tevinter nobles,” one of them spat, “talking as if you own us.”

Vinaeres tapped on Dorian's shoulder and pointed up the hill a some hundred feet from them. Dorian spied four or five other men, armed to the teeth. 

"We have to play this safe." Dorian crouched forward. If Alphonse doesn't get them to lay down their weapons, reaction would have to be quick. 

"If you've got nothing to hide, let us see what's back there." 

"Try and you die," Alphonse growled. 

One of the men laughed, " _you_ try and you'll have to fight the rest of us too." Someone whistled and in the distance where Vinaeres had pointed, six torches were lit.

"Then I'll fight the rest of you." Alphonse said, Dorian heard his sword unsheathe and he almost bolted out of the caravan.

“Wait,” Lady Rosenhain said, loud enough to be heard. She turned to Dorian, “perhaps I can talk to them." She handed her son to Vinaeres. 

Nikal doesn’t let go of his mother’s dress but Lady Rosenhain held his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “Wait here, love.” Before she got out of the caravan, she turned to Dorian and whispered, "if they will not listen to reason, please be prepared." 

There was sounds of shuffling outside.

“Gentlemen,” Dorian heard Lady Rosenhain say, her voice light and airy with no hint of nervousness. “We don't desire any conflict, this is why we escape Minrathous. Here, some coin to buy the way." 

Perhaps they had a chance, but then, "What Altus house are you from?" 

“House Pertinax, a Soporati house,” she said. “May we go, gentlemen?”

"Pertinax? The one allied with House Pavus?" 

“Vinaeres, ready yourself,” Dorian whispered, watching how the men’s faces change with that information. Vinaeres nodded, wiping Nikal’s snot from his face.

“Don’t move little brother.” Vinaeres whispered.

“Ksenia,” Dorian heard Alphonse say tersely. Then again, he said her name—loudly this time, urgent.

Dorian jumped out of the caravan, the pain in his stomach was sharp, but he ignored it. Vinaeres was behind him, and they both cast spells in quick succession.

Alphonse was yelling, pulling his wife behind him. “Vinaeres, step back!” He called to his daughter. She ignored him and joined Dorian by his side.

“Do as your father says,” Dorian said between breaths. Vinaeres pushed past Dorian and cast a fire wall in front of them before retreating to her father’s side.

“Alphonse, the horses!” Dorian yelled.

Alphonse cut the reigns of the horses and pulls Lady Rosenhain over. Vinaeres rode behind her father. Two of the men have been dispatched but the other five ride towards them.  

“Nikal!” Dorian sent another fire wall. He pulled the boy out of the caravan and mounted the other horse. They make their way to the Valarian Fields, trying to break their eye line. An arrow whizzed past Dorian’s head and lands a few feet in front of him. The horse stopped and almost turns, but Dorian quickly controls it.

All he could hear was how fast his heartbeat went as they disappeared into the forest.

 

++

 

Lady Rosenhain died at daybreak, succumbing to her wounds. The forest seemed quieter that morning.

 

++

 

**|| Fifteen**

 

They called themselves the Umbrae—the Shadow. Small in numbers but with precision and skill. And Dorian leads them. They made small movements and remained out of combat. How tragic, Dorian had thought, for someone like him to be clinging to the darkness—hiding his power. But it was essential. With ravens slaughtered and shot from the sky, there was no other choice.

 

Many died this year. So they prayed.

 

The Light shall lead her safely

Through the paths of this world, and into the next.

For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,

She should see fire and go towards Light.

The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,

And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker

Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

 

He thought of Marek, so skillful, determined, and kind above all. How can someone so full of good be gone? The Maker would not let it be. Despite all reason Dorian believes his son is alive. He feels it like magic, thrumming through his veins.

And his _Amatus_ , his dearest Ry’del. What storm can put out the sun? He is impossible to kill.

Still, despair gnawed at Dorian, and he drowned it in wine before adding their names to the fire.

  


++

 

**|| Sixteen**

 

He wrote letters. Some are burned, some are kept, many are unwritten.

 

+

 

Marek,

 

Do you live? Are you in the Fade watching over me? Or do you stay safe somewhere, waiting?

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

Marek,

 

You are sixteen this year, it has been too long and I can only imagine what you look like now. Perhaps you are taller than me. Perhaps you have mastered your powers and giving everyone a hard time! I am joking of course. In this war, Marek, you must follow your instincts and be brave. There will be times where you will face your fears, but you are better than it, Wherever you are, know that I love you. Stay brave.

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

Marek,

 

I wonder so many things about you. It’s almost as if you’re a stranger. Did you find a specialization you like? I would be shocked if you became a necromancer—you’ve never liked the idea of spirits. Knowing you, you’d be a knight-enchanter—

 

_Unfinished. Burned._

 

+

 

Marek,

 

This war seems so unfair to fathers, sons, and lovers.

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

 _Amatus_ ,

 

Nothing seems right. There had been times where we were separated by years, but never like this. Is Marek with you? Or do you both wait for me Fade?

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

Marek,

 

Do you know I am alive? If you do, please live and wait for me.

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

_Amatus,_

 

I feel nothing but sorrow. But news of you keeps me going.

 

_Burned._

 

+

 

Once darkness befalls me, and I am found mangled and bloodied, know my last thoughts are of you.

 

 _Kept._  


++

 

**|| Seventeen**

 

A funeral is held in the mountains, it’s quiet without all the Tevinter fanfare. It’s almost a sin, Dorian thinks, to hold something so solemn in mountains that brags such beauty. Vinaeres’ face is hard and unyielding. Her father, normally so regal and bright, is slumped over Nikal’s coffin, muttering prayers in Tevene.

“May you find peace in the Fade, brother,” Dorian hears Vinaeres say under her breath. The boy would have been around Marek’s age—if Marek has made it to this age. He shakes the thought from his head.

“Magister Pavus,” Alphonse calls. He doesn’t leave his son’s body, so Dorian goes to him. “I wanted to thank you, for trying your hardest to get him well.”

“I wish I could have done more.” Dorian says, putting a warm hand on Alphonse’s back.

He shakes his head, “I knew, the arrow was coated in poison. I knew. I could only wish he would make it.”

Dorian wonders if he knows what Vinaeres had done and decides that he does not, a conversation, he thinks, best left between them. “I leave you to grieve, Alphonse.”

“Your pardon, Magister Pavus.” Alphonse nods, not looking away from his son’s face.

 

++

 

“We’re like rats,” Vinaeres barges into Dorian’s tent that evening and paces around. “Hiding in the mountains like rats.”

“Calm down,” Dorian says quietly, putting his book down.

“Calm down?” Vinaeres scoffs. “And you’re reading a book? We should move _now_. It’s the best time. Fen’Harel’s forces are busy in Vol Dorma. We can get you to Kassel in the next month.”

“We are grieving, Vinaeres. _You_ are grieving.” Dorian matches her own anger. “To honor your brother’s death, give him a moment of peace.”

Vinaeres throws her staff across the tent, it crashes into Dorian’s desk and breaks a few glass flasks. “Fuck your moment of peace,” she says, voice low and threatening. “My family has given a lot to get you to this point—how dare you throw that opportunity away.”

“That’s true,” Dorian says, he tells himself to remain calm. “And I am grateful for that. But you must understand, Vinaeres, you must find peace in you before you act. Or you will make a mistake you will regret. Give yourself time to grieve, then we will make our move.”

“I am done grieving.” Vinaeres says, “you should too.”

  


++

 

“You’re grown taller,” Ditrik smiles, putting his hand on top of my head.

“So have you,” I reply. Ditrik is taller than I, but he has grown thin—as if he hasn’t been eating well.

“And you’ve scarred your pretty face.” He laughs, touching a faded scar on my cheek—a ridiculous sentiment, because what am I to Ditrik who boasts the best of his parents. “Did you get it from fighting battles?”

I feel hot from embarrassment, “hunting. Ry—the Inquisitor would not let me join the fight yet.”

“That’s a pity,” he says, "perhaps we can spar while waiting.”

I push on his shoulder playfully, “you want to get beaten so soon? I’ve improved you know.”

He shrugs, “So have I.” Ditrik clasps the back of my neck and presses his forehead against mine. I wish it doesn't end, but one of the Chevaliers that came with him calls for him. “My heart is so relieved to see you live.” He says, before pulling away.

I do not want to let go of him. I want cling to his side like a child, fearful I’d wake up and see that this is all a dream. When I had seen his face, memories flood and I remember his nervous confession and his defiant demand. That Ditrik is gone, replaced by someone comfortable in his own skin—confident and charming. I like it, but I feel this Ditrik is less honest than the one I left at fourteen. In time, he will tell me his story. I am content in waiting if it means he would stay with me like this.

 

++

 

He would have been shy to even think about approaching Ry’del in the past, now he stands by the Inquisitor, talking as if they’re old friends. I suddenly feel jealous—of many things, and I cannot sort them out, tangled together like a ball of thread. My face warms so I busy myself with unloading the cart of supplies the Chevaliers have brought to the camp. I look again when Ditrik starts to laugh. It carries through the camp and I think of how he would not have laughed so easily then. A nausea hits my stomach and I breathe in slowly. I pinch my arm and bury my face in my hands. A smile forms on my lips—I cannot help it, my heart is soaring and this is not a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The Dorian Chapter. Or as I like to call it, the Exposition Chapter. We missed Dorian for two years, I thought it was only right to see what we missed--maybe not everything, but at least the bigger parts. I think it also ties some loose ends which WAS SO HARD TO DO.  
> +I'm going to be honest, I HATED writing this chapter. I couldn't get into the emotional streak that was necessary to write this chapter and it was really bumming me out. There was also so much content to rifle through. And I was having a hard time deciding on what to share and what not to share. Obviously, I wanted to share the BIG parts that would answer some questions.  
> +A lot of the draft was me telling it instead of showing it and that was also pissing me off. It happens with Marek, but it makes sense with Marek. For Dorian, I feel like his chapters were more showing that Marek's are. IDK what I'm saying. All I'm saying is I hated that I had a hard time. Not that I actually hated writing this chapter.  
> +This chapter was not originally planned to be its own chapter, and so, when I decided that it would, I just figured I would keep it centered around the Rosenhain's.  
> +Ya'll the next chapters are going to be so much fun to write but also taxing...I for sure will take time writing it. So, goodbye for now? Who knows I may get a burst of energy over the weekend. But I doubt it.  
> +"Research" wise, I wrote this with a Tevinter map by my side. Then, because I wanted to be clear, I started coloring a map in to show Fen'harel/Mien'Harel territories are and Inquisition territories are and where conflict was happening and it was a task. But I used a map that someone made for their own DA ff and it didn't feel right using it. So... I'll probably make my own and attach it to the next update.  
> +Also, thank you for the kudos and the love. That just makes me happy. And the comments are always a nice surprise--shout out to you guys who take the time to write something it makes me sob joyfully.  
> +I'm glad you are enjoying the story!


	15. Shameless, an Author - The Filler Episodes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and Scenes that didn't make the final cut. Highly edited to provide different perspective and exposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that the next new chapters aren’t going to come out for a while just because holidays are coming up and because of work—there just isn’t any energy in my body. I also think that this fic is doing fairly well which makes me excited and it really does make me want to write non-stop. However, I don’t want to rush it either because I want to make sure it is good. ALSO, I decided to compile this because it has been two days and I have been really STRESSED. Today, I drama-cried in the car as I thought of my failures coming home from work (today was just tough--did I say that already???). So I needed to do something to make me happy.
> 
> And without further ado, I present the filler chapter that are snippets (when I say snippets, I MEAN snippets) and scenes that didn’t make the final cut. Many have been edited to change the perspective or the style.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Children.**

 

Shaela loves children, so when she sees the green-eyed, ash-brown haired boy sitting in Magister Pavus’ armchair, she thinks her heart would stop. “Marek will be living with us from now on.” Magister Pavus rifles through scrolls and parchments on his desk. “Would you be okay in taking care of him while I worked?”

She doesn’t answer right away, still recovering from the smile the boy just gave her.

Magister Pavus takes that as hesitation, so he continues, “if not, is there anyone you would recommend?”

When he turns around, he will find that Shaela already has the boy in her arms, telling him all the fun things they can do while Magister Pavus is away.

 

++

 

**Toads.**

 

Marek has indeed taken the toad off the breakfast table but he has placed it on the floor. It takes the toad two hops for Dorian to notice, and when he does, he stares at it. Dorian never liked toads. As a child, he fell into a pond. That in itself was traumatic, but as he was climbing out, a toad found its way to sit upon Dorian's arm. Then before he could shake it away, he watched its babies crawl out of its back. It had been a horrifying sight, one Dorian would never want to see again.

Dorian stares at the one hopping around his kitchen floor and grimaces. Slowly, he stretches his foot out and very gently tried to push it towards the door that led to the gardens. It would have been successful, but the toad slowly climbed unto Dorian’s shoe. A shudder went down Dorian’s back and he kicks his leg instinctively. The toad goes flying across the kitchen, ending Maker knows where. Dorian decides he’ll just let Shaela deal with it and hope it doesn’t end up on his bed tonight.

 

++

 

**Weddings.**

 

It was very kind of Shaela, to ask Magister Pavus and Master Marek to the wedding. She had been very shy and nervous about it, and paced the hallway of the study before she got the courage to walk in. Of course, I actually pushed her! I had her talk to them first and followed behind her when she looked over and reached out her hand.

“We’d be happy to attend.” Magister Pavus said, smiling at the both of us. “Congratulations to you both!”

We were gifted with an ornate bed to place in a home that was too small—so he gifted us a bigger house too.

 

++

 

**Parenthood.**

 

Alphonse Rosenhain visits the Pavus manor with small gifts and wine to apologize for the incident at school. But he is a Soporati and wonders if his gifts would be accepted. As predicted, Magister Pavus doesn’t accept it, but surprised Alphonse when he invites Alphonse to drink with him.

They talk about their children—Alphonse, despite his build, cannot handle his liquor. As wine spills from their cups, grievances of being fathers do as well.

“My oldest daughter loves her mother more and my oldest son just wants to read all day. The youngest one is my salvation and is the only one who gives me hugs and kisses when I come home.” Alphonse says.

“Marek seems to hate me right now, he’s s upset I brought home my lover.” Magister Pavus slurs.

“Vinaeres is a crass one when she chooses to be, I think she learns it from her mother—but I’m too nervous to ask my wife about it.” A hiccup.

“Well, Marek is spoiled and Shaela doesn’t even listen to me about not feeding him too much sweets. But the other day, I bought him more sweets. Pathetic aren’t I?”

“Spoiling your children is what fathers do!” Alphonse grunts, adamant.

“I will drink to that.”

The morning after, Alphonse remembers little, but is surprised to find himself slumped over the dining table with Magister Pavus sleeping soundly in front of him.

They become good friends after they shook off their drunkenness. 

 

++

 

**Motherhood.**

 

“Ah,” she smiles, holding me tighter. “You’re upset at your father.”

I didn’t have to think, “yes.”

“Do you want to talk?” Shaela’s voice is quiet, respectful, and soft. I thank the Maker for Shaela. She had always been so kind to me and she always knew what to say. She never pushed for me to talk and when she senses I wanted to be alone, she would leave. This time, I truly appreciate her.

“Yes.”

“Go on then,” she rocks me side to side.

I take a deep breath, knowing this would take me a while. Shaela rubs my arm to encourage me. I think how she will be a great mother.

Then, I begin.

“Shaela, if you love someone, do you share your secrets with them?” I lean closer.

She tilts her head to think, “sometimes. Only the ones that matter, I suppose.”

“So why didn’t Father tell me about the Inquisitor,” I ask. “Why would he keep a big secret like that? For so long?”

“Well,” she sighs. “It’s scary.”

I frown, “no it’s not. I tell Ditrik who I like all the time.”

Shaela laughs, tapping on my nose. “You like someone?” She raises her eyebrows, all mischievous like.

“That’s not the point!” I blush.

“It’s not that easy,” Shaela pinches my cheek. “Magister Pavus is scared that you might not like the Inquisitor. And how do you think he will feel if you hate someone he loves very much?”

I frown, “I don’t hate him—he’s just annoying.”

“The Inquisitor?” Shaela makes a face where she is half smiling and half frowning.

“He pretends to be my friend, but he doesn’t even know me. He looks clingy.” I mutter.

I look at Shaela, waiting for her response, but instead, she just giggles and gives me a tight hug. “Oh, Marek.” She sighs, smiling. “You should make up with your father quickly. And try being nice to the Inquisitor—I’ve known him for a long time and he’s very nice. Maybe if you ask, he’ll even get you _real_ Antivan sweets when he visits.”

I don’t like the idea, but maybe it was worth trying for Father’s sake.

 

++

 

**Chess.**

 

“The knight doesn’t move that way,” Cullen says, moving the piece back on the board. “They make an L shape—three spaces down, one over—like this.” But the boy only huffs and haphazardly chooses a spot without really thinking. “Are you sure you want to put it there? I could take your knight with a pawn.”

“Yes,” the boy drags his tone.

Cullen sighs and takes the knight over. “Your turn.”  

The boy rubs his face with his hands and moves another piece—directly in line with Cullen’s rook. “Are you sure?” Cullen demonstrates the move and the boy just nods. It takes two more moves for Cullen to realize that the boy is purposely letting his pieces get taken.

“Are you even playing seriously?” Cullen frowns, “you know the point, Marek, is to get to the king. You’ve moved your other knight here and I’m taking it!”

“Go ahead,” he answers, sounding bored. Cullen shakes his head and takes the knight, seriously thinking that Dorian has not taught the boy the joys of the game.

But...

“Check,” the boy suddenly says, moving his bishop right in the path of Cullen’s king. “So can you teach me how to use a sword now?”

Cullen stares at the board in shock. “Wait, did you win?”

The boy shrugs, “come on, show me how to use a sword!”

 

++

 

**Good Samaritan.**

 

Even Val Royeaux has ugly alleyways that stink like piss, Marek thinks, carefully stepping over puddles. He lifts his hand to cover his nose when he passes by something awfully foul. It was a bad idea to pass this way, but there was something curious about a place like this in Val Royeaux. He turns a corner and finds himself in a larger area, dark and dirty, hidden behind the glamour of Orlesian architecture. There were some people there, but as soon as they see him, they disappear behind doors.

“My Lord” someone tugs on his robes. “You’ve made a wrong turn, it’s not safe here with all your fancy things.”

Marek turns and sees a girl with a serious face. A small boy hides behind her. “Ah, you’re right.” Marek lies. It would seem terrible for him to tell her he’s there because he was curious, “I was busy with all my thoughts! Could you tell me where to go?”

The girl smiles, “of course, my Lord.” She squats and the little boy gets on her back. “Oh, but you’d give us a little bit of coin right?”

“Would ten coins do?” Marek tries to remember how much he has on him.

“A whole ten coins?” The little boy gasps, eyes wide.

Marek laughs, “yes, ten whole coins.”

The children look at each other and smile. “Right this way my lord!”

Marek must have wandered farther than he thought, as the children makes several turns through alleys and hidden communities before finally reaching an exit that looks more like the Val Royeaux presented to the public.

“Thank you,” Marek fishes out the coins from his pocket and puts it in the boy’s outstretched palm.

The boy looks at the girl and she shakes her head. “My Lord, we can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

“Ten coins was the deal, was it not?” Marek recounts it.

“Ten _copper_ coins my lord. Gold coins is nothing but trouble where we live.” The girl says.

Marek is flustered, “I don’t have copper coins.”

“Then you don’t have to give us anything,” the girl nods.

“That’s not acceptable,” Marek sighs. Then he remembers something and digs through his knapsack. “Here,” he hands the girl a parcel.

“What is it?” She turns it over her hands.

“Fresh fish from the docks,” Marek smiles. “Is this okay?”

The girl giggles, “yes, my lord! Of course.”

 

++

 

**Withered Weather.**

 

There are three things Blackwall likes.

One.

Bad rum and drinking it after a hard fight. He rewarded himself with the best drink of his life after he lead a six man group through Antiva and into Brynnlaw where they pulled off a rescue mission that ended with zero casualties. Bless the Maker for them to push themselves into the fire and get out alive. The tavern in Ayesleigh almost ran out of alcohol. _Almost_.

Two.

Being recognized as a part of the Inquisition. How he beams with pride when he rides to battle with the Inquisition banners raised high above their heads. They’re really helping people, and they’re making a difference. What more could he want?

Three.

Josephine. And he doesn’t need to explain himself either.

 

++

 

**Master Chef.**

 

“Please?” Bull tries.

“Look,” Sera takes a deep breath. “The reason I ain’t really wanting to cook is it’s boring—yeah? You go swoosh with some knives and who wants to play with knives when you can shoot arrows? Then you swirl it around some boring circle. I admit, the fire’s nice and all, but the fire doesn’t even do anything but sit there. Like it doesn’t have to do anything. Then you’re waiting for the rest to finish what they’re doing until— _ooh_ —all that fancy smell comes out. It’s not fun and I can’t be bothered. I’m not touching any of that shite. So you can all piss off.”

Later, “Sera, can you make dinner tonight?” Dagna tries.

“Something fancy—yeah?" Sera replies. 

 

++

 

**Flowers in Your Hair.**

 

Marek notices that Ditrik is popular around the camp. He gets along with everyone and it seems to make Marek feel a little lonely.

“You’re different,” Marek stares. Accusation at the tip of his tongue, jealousy building. He wants to say it but pride and embarrassment keeps him from doing so.

Ditrik smiles, so bright and genuine, “yes.” He puts an arm around Marek’s shoulders—heart swelling, tightening— “let’s count the ways. One, I’m taller. Two, I’m a better looking. Three, I’m stronger, and four—!”

Marek, pushes him away, “I get it,” he grumbles. Confusion and questions come.

“Oh, so you agree?” Ditrik presses himself closer.

“That’s not what I really mean,” Marek sighs. Frustration threatening to burst. “I mean, you use to be so nervous and shy. I remember how you couldn’t even talk to complete strangers. Now you’re—”

“Frivolous with my friendships?”  Ditrik smiles, there is pain there. Close to spilling but he holds it so tightly. _Not yet_.

Marek’s face is serious, “now you’re charismatic and admirable.”

Ditrik laughs, holding Marek’s face in his hands and rubbing their noses together, “what a sweet thing to say!” He pulls away, “you haven’t changed.” White relief sweeps over him.

Marek avoids his gaze, looking a bit upset. “I haven’t?” _I’ve changed too. Tell me I’m better._

“Do you remember before you left? Back then, you said it so coolly—’I swear it.’” Ditrik grins. “You made my heart flutter a little bit back then.” _With heartache and fright._ Another deep blush creeps on Marek’s face— _why is it so nice to see him like this?_ —but says nothing so he continues, “I quite like that side of you.” Ditrik reaches to carefully move strands of hair from Marek’s face.

Marek remembers seeing him hidden away with that other boy— _hands tangled in long hair, Ditrik braiding flowers into his hair. They looked so happy._  

Marek sighs, and quietly, he says, “maybe I should grow my hair long too.”

Ditrik doesn’t hear it, but some worries unravel and I leave them for another day.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Children+  
> I was going to do a scene where Shaela meets Marek and he's sitting in the study with Dorian. But Dorian wasn't really paying attention to her, so I just took it out.  
> +Toads+  
> Omg. I hate toads so much, especially the ones that carry their babies on their backs. I am so grossed out by toads.  
> +Weddings+  
> Dorian met Shaela's husband at some point, this was that time.  
> +Parenthood+  
> I never did tie the end of that part where Vinaeres and Marek got in trouble with the Headmaster. This is the aftermath. I love Alphonse. FUN FACT: The Rosenhains are actually an OC from a real novel I'm writing. Lol.  
> +Motherhood+  
> Remember when Marek was like, "yeah I don't wanna say why I'm pissed at father." Well, this was it.  
> +Chess+  
> Supposedly set when the Inquisition people visited when Marek was 12. Marek hung out with Cullen a lot--of course they played chess and Marek is a little hustler--or he cheats. Idk.  
> +Good Samaritan+  
> Set before Chapter 12. This was going to be a part of that chapter, but i took it out. Idk why though...  
> +Withered Weather+  
> AHHHH. I LOVE writing from Blackwall's perspective. It's funny because I didn't like him the first time I played, but listening and reading his dialogue made me like him a lot. Something about the way he talks makes it really fun to write! I also added this (this wasn't in the story at all) because he's in Rivain and has been largely missing from the story. According to my "war map," is north of Antiva and is a huge conflict area. My boi Blackwall is a boss.  
> +Master Chef+  
> Headcanon Sera is a good cook. Doesn't do it for anyone but Dagna tho.  
> +Flowers in My Hair+  
> IF YOU KNOW ME I LOVE USING THE WORD "FLOWERS" INTO MY TITLES. It's a disease at this point. But I think it's such a cute word. And it makes me happy so whatEVER. This is from Cole's perspective. Lovely Spirit Cole. Also, it happens between chapter 14 and chapter 15 (the real one). The other boy is Kael--who is never getting mentioned in story as I have said before. :(  
> +Ditrik 19y.o+  
> I drew this under stress as well. Haha! I thought I should draw it. It's a different style from the Marek I did. So I'm gonna redo marek at some point. Ugh. My back hurts. My shoulders hurt. Everything hurts. Stress is gone, but muscles are tense. SIGH.  
> +I have written out all my stress. Thank you for letting me share.


	16. Trusted, a Chevalier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ditrik shakes up the dynamics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I wrote like bits and pieces here and there and finally completed it today. I got a massage yesterday and I think that helped--ha!  
> +There will be quite a few elven phrases here and there that isn't translated in-story. I will explain more about that in the end notes.

**|| Trusted, a Chevalier**

**|| Seventeen**

 

The night sky looks riddled with fire and smoke—the stars do not come out this night. “It’s worse closer to Tevinter,” Ditrik says, sitting up to stretch and yawn. “It’s sad that I have come to expect it.”

“I can’t get use to it at all,” a shudder goes through me. “It makes me uneasy.”

Ditrik yawns again, “it’s good you don’t. It’s not normal.”

His words make me wonder how many sacrifices have been made—how many people died unwillingly for this war, how many embraces it, and how many rejects it. Questions swim in my head until I can no longer think, so I say, “you’re tired, you should go to bed.” Still, I am troubled and wish he stays longer.

Ditrik reaches over and caresses my cheek with a finger—always a small touch. “You should too, have you been sleeping well?”

I slap his hand away with more force than I intended, “sorry," I quickly apologize. “It is my turn to keep watch this night.” I lie. I am not ready to speak of my own demons.

Ditrik sighs, unaffected, “what goes on in that head of yours?” He reads me so well, have I truly not changed in the past four years?

“Many things.” I admit. “But there is one thought that nags at me.”

“What is it?” He leans close. “Tell me.” Almost demanding.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There is one question that burns. “My Father, have you heard anything about him?”

He stares at me—unreadable. “It hurts to tell you no.”

I’ve always appreciated how he doesn’t mince words, but I wish he would treat my heart more gently—he’s breaking it and he doesn’t know.

“I see.” A part of me had resented seeing Ditrik again, blooming a hope in me that I have long forgotten. I look to the horizon, watching shadows of trees dance in the wind. “What of your family then?”

He shrugs, leaning back to prop himself up with his arms. “When Minrathous was attacked and the fighting worsened, I made the choice to help. Fires broke out and before I knew it, I was riding out on the Imperial Highway and I have not seen my family since.”

I hold his hand, guilty that I have not asked him sooner. “I’m sorry. I hope you see them again.”

Ditrik squeezes my hand, “I will. In the world of the living or the dead, I will see them again.” A strange thought from a man who loved his family so much. His willpower lights a jealousy in me. How could he find it so easy to live with such resolve?

“Come,” Ditrik shakes me from my thoughts, pulling me towards him. “Sleep, I will keep the first watch.” I protest, but he cradles my head to his chest. His heartbeat is steady and slow while mine beats quickly. “You need it more than I do.” He whispers. I lay on his lap while he plays with the hair behind my ears. I think how cruel the Maker is, to bring me someone to love who would remind me of heartache and pain.

 

++

 

I wake up in my tent, hearing the bustle of a morning outside. There were no nightmares that night and I wonder if it is the Maker’s way for apologizing.

“You’re awake,” Ditrik pops his head into the tent. “It’s all very exciting out here!”

I groan away the remnants of my slumber, “you didn’t wake me,” I accuse.

He smiles at that, “you looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart to disturb your sleep.”

“Wake me up next time, it feels like I have slept for too long.” I stretch, unsatisfied with how my back is still sore.

“I will, next time.” Ditrik says, disappearing from behind the tent flap to call out to one of the Chevaliers. Then he looks in again, “also, the Inquisitor is asking for you.”

“What for?” There were only a few things Ry’del and I talked about—Dalish culture and traditions, training, hunting, and Father. Anything else still largely remains unspoken but understood between us.

Ditrik shrugs, “whatever it is, before you go, you may want to wash up.” He waves his hands in front of his face. I reflexively turn my head towards the mirror by a basin of water. My face is streaked with kohl. Have I been crying at night? I don’t recall.

I rub under my eyes, suddenly conscious. “Thank you.”

He lingers near the opening for a moment. It unnerves me how I can't understand his expression. “Always,” he says, giving a small smile before leaving.

 

++

 

“Have you and Ditrik caught up?” Ry’del sits. There is nervousness behind his smile.

I settle in front of him. “We’ve talked. But not enough.”

“It never is with old friends,” he spares a quick smile. “He came with Orlesian soldiers.”

“The Chevaliers.”

Ry’del is the Inquisitor once more, serious and stony. “What do you think?”

It’s a complicated question. Orlesian alliance is needed. Their soldiers are highly trained and vast. Their fortresses are perfect strongholds that provide strategic points on the war map. Yet, there is much reason to doubt Orlais during these tumultuous times. His talks with Josephine makes it clear—with the Inquisition’s alliance with Ferelden and influence in Orlais, Empress Celene Valmont is paranoid about her position. And with Madame Vivienne’s dangerous comment that the Valmont rule could be easily toppled with the right tool, tensions with Orlais rises. If Empress Celene decides the Inquisition is too big of a risk, she may turn on us.

As for Ditrik, I can trust him, so I say it. “I trust him.”

Ry’del nods after a pause, “and how long has it been since you’ve seen him? Can you trust him after all these years?”

It’s a jarring question, but I’m forceful. “I trust him.” I think carefully, “and only him.”

Ry’del stares at me, unblinking, unflinching—reading what he can on my face. “Then I will trust him too.” He sighs deeply, rolling his shoulders. “Forgive me, the nights have been long and I have learned the Imperial Highway to Nevarra is overrun.” I don’t know what to do so I say nothing. “We lost all communication with Kirkwall.”

“Varrik?” My stomach turns.

“We don’t know.” I understand his quiet ire and nervousness. It makes me sad to see him looking so small—unlike the image of the Inquisitor defeating Corypheus. Fen’Harel has chipped away at him, and I know I cannot continue to stand idle while it happens.

I put a hand to his shoulder. The gesture is awkward, but he doesn’t pull away. “Ry’del, please see Atven.”

“I’m fine,” he says softly, patting my hand. “Such things are the reality of war.”

I start to argue when the tent rustles open. “Inquisitor Lavellan—!” Ditrik pauses, glances at me. He smiles. “Ah, Marek, you’re here too!” I wonder if Ditrik has been listening in.

“I’ll take my leave,” I nod at Ry’del. They will talk of war and battles—one I know I am not allowed to partake in.

“No, stay.” Ditrik holds my hand. “If that’s alright with you, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

I look to Ry’del, and the Inquisitor lifts his hand, giving me permission to stay. “Lord Rosenhain, is there something wrong with your accomodations?”

“Not at all, Your Worship. It’s quite grand considering.” He doesn’t let go and I see Ry’del’s eye flicker to our clasped hands.

“I’m glad to hear that. Lady Montilyet has worked hard to keep Inquisition strongholds well stocked.” He offers a seat to Ditrik. “So what are you here for?”

“As you know I’ll be joining a mission to Perendale to secure a passage for Orlesian supplies to get through.” Ditrik leans forward.

Ry’del raises an eyebrow. “Yes and I assured you and your Commander the Inquisition will provide assistance.”

“Then please let me take Marek with me.” Ditrik is serious, but I see his hands shaking. My heart starts beating faster—unsure what to think and hoping hard.

“No.” Ry’del doesn’t hesitate and my hope sinks.

“We need a mage, with Marek’s skills.” I watch Ditrik’s face, a small grimace forming on his lips.

Ry’del stands, “no. Take Annalise if you need someone.”

“I don’t know Annalise.” Ditrik insists, how he can gather the strength to speak so boldly, I don’t know. “I know Marek.”

“ _Ar tel'juver lasa ish'ala ma ve._ ” Ry’del doesn’t look away from Ditrik when he says this.

I stand by Ditrik, “ _Sathan. Is juver din em ve anhnsul tamahn ir sal'shiral sul._ ” Ry’del shakes his head, looking at me with sun eyes.

“ _Ma’da’len, dana me._ ” Ry’del he says, sitting back down. He gives Ditrik a look. “Marek will go with you. And so will I.”

 

++

 

“Don’t take any chances,” Ry’del warns. “Know your own strengths and if it gets too much, retreat.”

“I know how to fight.” I say, annoyed at how he dotes on me in front of the other soldiers—but it reminds me of Father and I let that appease me.

Ry’del nods, “you can fight, I know. But not like this. Be prepared.”

“I am.”

“Limit yourself to two lyrium potions.” He continues like this. Ry’del reminds me of several things—things I know and has been drilled into me from my training. He seems to read my mind because he says, “real battles are different. There is chaos in the field and you will feel alone.”

“But remember I am always there.” He continues.

“It must be nice,” Ditrik suddenly says, looking between the two of us, “to have people who love you, Marek.”

Ry’del reddens at this as I feel my own cheeks warm. “Stop teasing Ditrik, it’s unbecoming of you.” He only smiles, hiding secrets behind it.

 

It takes a week for us to reach the outskirts of Perendale. The fighting can be faintly heard in the distance and it thrums at my heart. “We will camp for the evening and ready ourselves in the morning.” Ry’del starts unloading supplies from the caravan.

“We’re not going now,” I ask.

Ditrik runs his hand through my hair, “don’t be so eager to jump into battle. Save your strength. We will eat and rest first.”

“Ditrik is right, eat and rest. Morning will come soon enough.” Ry’del says. I know I will not sleep. The cries of battle keep my nerves awake and my fear of demons visiting me at night lingers on. Still, I do as I am told and lie in my cot, eyes wide open. I think of all the different things that can happen tomorrow. I will see death—I know this. I am not a stranger to seeing someone slain. I have slain men before—but I have not used my own blade. I do not know the feeling of slicing my spirit blade through human flesh. It will be different so will I be able to? This could be my last night on earth—and I think how scary it is to understand that death can be very final. But I take comfort in knowing that Ry’del will not let me die.

“Marek,” Ditrik whispers. I thought he had gone to sleep. I wonder if he thinks of the same things as I do. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

“Are you?” I retort.

I hear him shift in his cot, facing me. “Not really. But you’ve been muttering for a while now. It’s very distracting.”

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’ll stop, so please sleep.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time and the silence between us becomes uncomfortable. Has he fallen asleep? I turn to face him and it unnerves me to see him staring still.

“Do you want me to comfort you?” He suddenly says and I blush.

“No. Please go to sleep.” I say again, looking away.

He laughs, reaching out to touch my shoulder. “What lewd things are you thinking of? I didn’t mean it that way.” He gets up to push out cots together. “I’ll embrace you until you fall asleep. Feeling lonely before a fight is a sad feeling.”

My heart tightens. “Fine,” I say, pressing myself against him. I push away all the thoughts from my mind and soon, I am fast asleep.

 

++

 

I wake in the morning with cold sweat on my brow. My hands shake and I can’t chase the feeling of fear in my blood.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Ditrik says, jolting me from the remnants of my night terrors. He is already dressed and it feels I have not slept at all. I sit up, groggy and notice our cots pushed away from each other—I try not to think of it too much.

“Are we leaving soon?” I rub my eyes until I see stars.

“No,” he answers, washing his face. “It’s quite early. You can sleep some more if you want.”

I shake my head, “I think I’ll eat something,” feeling a nausea hit me. “Is Ry’del awake?”

“Yes, he’s going over the plan with Captain Durand.” He fixes his hair then turns to look at me. “We should go once you are ready.”

I stand, nudging Ditrik aside to look at myself in the mirror. “You’re really concerned with how your hair looks for battle?” I tease.

He leans against me, peering at the mirror to do some final adjustments. “Not really. I’m just concerned my bangs are too long—I don’t know if I should cut them off or let it grow. It’s a liability in the field, you know.”

“Just do it like this,” I reach up, tying his bangs up and it juts forward. I laugh.

Ditrik looks at himself and frowns, “this will ruin my reputation.” He tugs it loose and weaves his fingers in my hair, tying it back. “But this will make you a lady killer.”

The things he says in small moments like this makes me wonder many things. “Stop teasing,” I mutter under my breath.

The horn sounds and Ditrik and I glance at each other, knowing the time has come. He suddenly changes, from his playful self to a serious one—a soldier. I know I look nervous and far too excited.

I join Ry’del in the front, standing beside him. “Are you ready, Marek?”

I nod, “I’ll do my best.”

“Whatever happens,” he takes out his spear. “Remember, you are not alone.”

 

++

 

There is a heaviness in my body as we approach where all the fighting is. The sound is more thunderous than I could imagine. It is as they have said—chaotic and unlike raids. Ditrik unsheathes his sword and gives me a wink before riding ahead of us. I watch him swing his sword towards a soldier—I don’t know how they could tell who was who so quickly. The soldier falls and Ditrik jumps off his horse, driving the sword into the man’s heart.

He enjoys the fight, I think, seeing the flash of teeth and smiles.

“Ready yourself, Marek.” Ry’del says before dashing off as well. It’s a different sight. While Ditrik is pure carnage, hacking and cutting down enemies left and right, he waits for soldiers to come to him. Ry’del, on the other hand doesn’t stay in one spot for too long. He rolls and dives, moving from one enemy to another. He’s quick with the spear and he seems untouchable. Soon, I am seeing how Father fits into all this. Where he could stand and how they would provide support for each other. I’m mesmerized when I hear someone shouting. I come to my senses and fade step as I see a soldier running up to me—blade drawn. He is persistent, dodging or blocking my spells. Then, I get close to him, forming my spirit blade to slice through him, but he moves back and I barely get him. But my training kicks in, I know how to use a sword and I make quick of him, jabbing the spirit blade forward to get him through the stomach. It is not as harrowing as I thought it would be. And with that, I find my rhythm. It is a back and forth—a dance—and I find myself enjoying it. There is an addiction to it, I have not been injured yet and I feel a confidence bubbling in me. I make my way towards Ry’del, trying to match what Father might have done if he were to fight alongside Ry’del again. Ry’del senses this and moves with me—we are water, gliding like powerful waves.

“Marek!” Ry’del yells, stretching his hand out. I don’t know what he wants but I run to him and grab his hand. “Firewall!”

I do as he says. As I cast the spell, he half throws me and the staff drags a large half circle on the dirt. The firewall comes up in a curve, stopping charging opponents from behind us. “Get behind them—get their attention and throw up a barrier.” He says quickly. I fade step through the firewall and use a storm spell to get their eyes on me. As they charge, I put up my barrier and before I knew it, Ry’del is soaring above the fire wall, spear at the ready and lands on one of the soldiers. He spears the soldier through the stomach and Ry’del takes advantage of the other’s surprise, running his spear through them. I take the last one with a powerful inferno spell and the battlefield grows quiet.

Ditrik roars, I look, suddenly scared, but he stands above his enemy, pulling his sword up.

“Did we do it?” I am out of breath. The Inquisitor swallows, looking around, and nods.

“Yes, the battle is ours. Perendale is ours.”

 

++

 

“You did very well, Marek.” Ry’del smiles. The praise makes me happy, but I try to hide it. “You move much like Dorian—but your spells are somewhat strange.”

“Is it no good?” I rub the back of my neck.

He pats my back. “No, it’s very good. It keeps your enemies on their toes.” He picks up a small container of elfroot ointment. “I can see you leading your own forces one day—if that is what you want.”

“That’s a strange thought right now.” I admit. “But I think it would be something to do in the future.”

Ry’del lifts my sleeves, checking for wounds and burns. “If so, I don’t think your Father would approve. He might have killed me for letting you join the battle today.” He says, rubbing ointment on my arms.

“Why do you say that,” I ask. “Do you only take care of my because of Father?” It has been a question I have been wondering about for a while. If I was not Dorian Pavus’ son, would Ry’del care for me at all?

He is surprised by my question, “no,” he says quietly. “I care very much, it’s just…” he trails off.

“Go on,” I demand. “Make me understand.”

“It’s just I don’t want you to assume that I am trying to take his place.” He says, wrapping a bandage around the burns on my arms.

“No one can replace Father.” I say.

He nods, “that is true.”

I realize too late the weight of my words. I didn’t mean it in such a cruel way.

“I cannot be Dorian,” Ry’del says, tying the last of the bandages, “but please allow me to be your protector.”

 

++

 

Ditrik lays next to me, trailing my scar with a finger. “Do you prefer using magic or swords?”

“Both,” I reply. “Magic doesn’t feel as connected when fighting with a sword, but casting is pretty fun.”

“How many trainers have you had?” He had said he wanted to catch up—to know what I’ve been doing, but so far, his questions are tame.  

“Many. A few in Tevinter—you know this. And a few more from Orlais and Cassandra. Now it’s just Annalise.” I pull the covers closer, feeling the chill of the breeze.

Ditrik nods, “Annalise is very pretty—have you,” he nudges me, “thought of her _that_ way.”

I grimace, “no. She’s a bit crass when you get to know her. And she’s much older.”

“Ah,” he jabs a finger to my side, making me grunt in pain, “so if she was younger…?”

“No.” I insist. “Let’s stop talking about this.”

He chuckles, “but I’m curious. Did Marek Pavus have lovers?”

I turn away from him, “some.” I answer.

“Oh!” Ditrik pulls me to face him. “Tell me of them!”

I turn red, “they were nothing ever serious—just curiosity.”

“Men or women?”

I groan, “both.”

“Intriguing.” Ditrik grins. “So you have experiences like that too.”

“Just,” I swallow, “kissing.”

He laughs, “I’ve stolen your first one, didn’t I?”

“Stop teasing. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I feel hot and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry for teasing.” He says, brushing my hair away from my face. “I won’t speak of it anymore.”

I sigh, “then go to sleep,” I push him away. “You’re too close.”

“Sorry,” he says again, patting my shoulder. “Before you leave me with my thoughts, can I ask you one more thing?”

I shrug, “what is it?”

“Are you taking on the Lavellan name?”

I freeze at his question, “what makes you think that?”

“Am I assuming too much,” he asks.

“You assume too much.” I shake my head.

“I’m sorry. It seems I’m not saying anything right this evening.”

I sigh deeply, “no. It’s a complicated situation.” I say.

“Easily solved with a drink and private conversation.” Ditrik says.

“Perhaps,” I reply, feeling a nervous nausea hit me.

"You want to please him, like you did Magister Pavus. I know you enough to guess." He forces me to think too much. 

"It's complicated." 

Ditrik shrugs, yawning loudly, “well, speaking of which, I’m a bit sad that you didn’t pay attention to me in battle.” I can hear his smile. “I even went through the trouble of showing off, but you weren’t even looking.”

“You’re an idiot.” I laugh. “There is an hierarchy for my attention. First is Father, then the Inquisitor—he’s much more fun to watch, and then you.”

“Top three,” he flicks my forhead. “I’ll take it.”

 

++

 

When I am sure that Ditrik is asleep, I get up from my cot and leave the tent. It is impossible to sleep after all so I might as well relieve a soldier on duty. I sit in the silence, staring at the horizon. There are small fires in the distance, but nothing troublesome. With Perendale clear, it is doubtful Fen’Harel or Mien’Harel soldiers would be lurking about.

“You’re making this a habit,” Ry’del says behind me. I give him a small nod, scooting so he could have a seat. “I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve said.”

I say nothing so he continues. “I care deeply about you—like a son. But I want to be sure I feel this way not as a duty to Dorian but true love for you.” He doesn’t blush, he doesn’t flinch. “Right now, I can’t separate it—duty and love, and it feels wrong. It’s unfair to you and to your father. I want to convey myself without half-hearted feelings. Do you understand?”

I can feel tears in my eyes, “I will admit I said it wrong. No one can replace Father, this is true. But you’re not a replacement. Have you thought, at all, about what I feel?” It’s a bit accusing, but it’s the childishness in me. “I have come to see you as your own person. Not as Father’s lover—but a father in his own right. I’m slowly accepting you as a part of my life, but I can’t help but think this is a fatherhood that has been thrust upon you.”

“One that I’m not ready for,” Ry’del admits. “But one I am working on.”

“Work harder, please,” I say without thinking. “It’s lonely waiting.”

Ry’del takes a deep breath, and I realize there are tears in his eyes too. “Then let me make it up to you—let’s take one step forward.” He holds my hand. “ _Athlan em babae_ , _ma’da’len_.”

My chest feels heavy and I sob into his shoulder.

“ _Babae, ra gonun ea shathe?_ ” I say and he simply nods.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations!  
> +“Ar tel'juver lasa ish'ala ma ve.” Ry’del says. My grammar isn't right or anything, and some guess work with translations, but it loosely translates to "I will not let him take you away."  
> +Marek replies with: “Sathan. Is juver din em ve anhnsul tamahn ir sal'shiral sul.” Which is "Please. He will not take me away because there is much to live for."  
> +“Ma’da’len, dana me.” To Marek from Ry'del. (My child, you break me.) Because I like to think Ry'del realizes that it is time for Marek to join the war.  
> +The exchange really is about Ry'del not wanting for Marek to go because he is scared that Marek might die or maybe even possibly be entranced enough by Ditrik to leave him. Ry'del is sort of vulnerable to that. Marek changes his mind by subtly letting Ry'del know that he's not going to abandon him so easily.  
> +“Athlan em babae, ma’da’len.” (Call me father, my child.)  
> +“Babae, ra gonun ea shathe?” (Father, is it alright to be happy?)  
> XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
> +Now that the translations are out of the way, LET US TALK.  
> +This chapter has a copious amount of Ditrik and Marek (I did not start out liking this dynamic, but as I continued writing and tweaking, I'm growing on it). I have been building up to this point and maybe some will think that the dynamic seems out of nowhere, but I promise you there is a reason why it builds kind of fast. I'll just say that I personally believe it is a logical reason.  
> +What do you guys think? I personally love how Ditrik is kind of in Marek's face all the time with the touch here and there, but there are some hints there, I think, that doesn't quite go the way it seems to be going. All I can say is that Marek is slowly falling in love but isn't quite sure what kind of love it is. It's pretty obvious to us, but who knows how it will all play out.  
> +A lot of this chapter also deals with sleep and not being able to sleep. It's a comment, on vulnerability and openness. I think people who are sleepy or cannot fall asleep are more vulnerable and more susceptible to showing their feelings. Marek allows himself several choices that I don't think he would allow himself if he was more awake.  
> +Marek joins the fray and he has mixed feelings. Should he be scared or excited? He is in between. He is scared of death and demons and ghosts because it's very real to him. His night terrors doesn't help. However, he enjoys the adrenaline high he gets from fighting and that will play into his future.  
> +And finally--Ry'del and Marek talk. It's good to finally hear what Ry'del has to say about his relationship with Marek. It's not exactly Father/Son, but it's getting there. They understand each other a little bit more. It's not yet at the point of completely taking on the Lavellan name as he did with Pavus, but there is hope in the horizon.  
> +I'm just excited that Marek is going to start calling Ry'del "babae." I think this differenciates his love for Ry'del and Dorian in a respectful way. This also means that Marek is going to be speaking in elven a lot more. I like to think it will be a big part of his future as well.  
> +Also, foreshadowing here and there--love it when I can sneak in some foreshadowing here and there. I try to make it subtle, but you never know. Heehee.  
> +I don't translate in-story because it's from Marek's point of view, so he knows what Ry'del is saying--he doesn't need to translate it.   
> +I also haven't really said how Marek or Ditrik looks like. I think do so little by little, but I don't come right out and say it. But if you really need a description, here it is:   
> OOO Ry'del: White hair, long, pale, scars all over his face, really light vallaslin, a bit on the short side (5'7"), and golden eyes (but I think we all know that because I don't shut up about it.)  
> OOO Dorian: I'm dumb because some people say he has brown eyes, some say green, I swear I thought it was gray, so, it's gray in this universe at least.  
> OOO Marek: Green eyes, wavy/curly hair that is a light ash-brown, he's a bit tanned. Taller than Ry'del (5'9"), built with more muscle, but a cute face with a scar on his cheek.   
> OOO Ditrik: I don't remember if I mentioned it.... I think he either has gray or blue eyes (omg or was it green?). Leaning towards blue because I know that his father has blue eyes. Ditrik also has black hair. He stands tall at 6'1" and is lean but less muscular than Marek. Paler, like his father too.   
> OOO Vinaeres: Looks a lot like her mother. Gray eyes, dark hair, dark skin. She wears her hair long and stands just about as tall as Marek (the height is from her father. Lady Rosenhain is quite short).  
> +We are slowly getting to the finish line. I'm getting nervous myself.


	17. Duty, a Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marek gets an opportunity and learns a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATED [12/4]: HELLO! Chapter 17 has been HIGHLY updated and has more dialogue and scenes. I highly recommend you read this fixed version.  
> Translations for the masses:  
> ________________________________________________  
> "Ma dirtha mah ga melana.” (Elven) = You say this all the time.  
> "Ar elana halani ara'le." (Elven) = I can take care of myself.  
> “mah ea a babae lath.” (Elven) = This is a father's love.  
> “mar lath aria em.” (Elven) = Your love is suffocating.  
> “abelas sul ahn?" (Elven) = Sorry for what?  
> "Ar ame telir a delavir alin ehn ea sul esh'ala ar lath." (Elven) = I am just a [person] who becomes foolish for those I love.  
> “Ahn ea ma’sal’shiral emaronem to esh’ala ar nuvena to ama?” (Elven) = What is my life compared to those I want protect?  
> "un remplacement de merde." (Orlesian) = A shit replacement.  
> "Alia etiam linua lokuis possum." (Tevene) = I can speak in a different language too.  
> "Pala ma." (Elven) = Fuck you.  
> "La pute lapin." = The rabbit whore.  
> “Myathash to ma ma’isa’ma’lin.” = Honor to you, my brother.  
> “Las son, isa’ma’lin.” = Hope well, brother.  
> "Ar dirtha'var'en." = I promise.

**|| Duty, a Choice**

**|| Eighteen**

There is nothing more beautiful than the Tevinter coastline—even with war raging at its heart, the coast and sea remains untouched, reminding everyone this war is a small and short history in a much bigger universe.

Still, to the people of Thedas, this war will decide the fate of their world. Dorian takes a deep breath, knowing this will not be the last.

As the small ship with gray sails rides away from Tevinter, Dorian thinks of many things. He will send letters, with questions and stories. He will learn the truth and fear lingers on—underneath his skin, scratching at dark corners of his heart. But hope is more powerful still, amidst all the despair.

 

++

 

"We've been looking for you!" Annalise leans against the half-wall.

"Me?" Ditrik drops his stance and approaches her but Annalise points at me.

"Not you, handsome." She winks. "I'm here for the little prince."

She says it in jest—one that spread through the camp and a jest I have not come to like. "What do you need me for?" I grumble, irritated to have my precious breaks taken away. Lately, she has me working on minor spells that have no fanfare. If not that, then she makes me do chores she doesn't want to do. Annalise swears she has promoted me from being a trainee to her right-hand man—whatever that means.

Annalise hops over the wall and playfully shoves Ditrk aside to put her arm around my shoulders. "Your _babae_ just sent one of my people away and I thought it was fair to take one of his people with me." She waggles her eyebrows at Ditrik and he huffs gently with a light chuckle, looking away.

"A raid?" My eyes widen. Annalise and her companions make up  _Le Chuchotement—_ The Whispers—and have been hailed to be as strong as a team as Bull and Sera. Does Ry'del trust me enough? To allow me this honor?  "Is he letting me go?"

"Yes," but from the way she says it I know she is lying. Even Ditrik catches on and raises his brows at her.

"You're not getting him in trouble, are you?" He speaks for me.

Annalise relents easily—too easily, but I give it little thought. "Alright, he doesn't know. But that's the whole point of _Le Chuchotement_. If we begin telling everyone what we're up to, how do we remain a whisper through the wind?" She smiles slyly. "Still, Marek, I will respect your decision. If you don't want to go, I shall take Ditrik along with us."

"I don't mind it," Ditrik shrugs, giving me a cheeky grin. I'm slighted by the notion that he seems eager to go.

"What's the mission," I ask instead, finding that petty grievances can make me impulsive.

"Mien'Harel scouts are camped just east from here," Annalise draws a crude map on the dirt, marking the location with an X. "It's a sabotage mission—and that is all I can say until I get someone's okay." She looks to me.

Ditrik frowns, "neither Marek and I are discrete," crossing his arms across his chest. He is right. When Ry'del partnered me with Ditrik, we burned bright like dragon fire, dancing in the battlefield with flames and iron moving in harmony. I had accidentally burned arm and he accidentally cut me, but there was nothing more thrilling that fighting by his side. Chaotic beauty, Ry’del had called it after the fight. A perfect match, it seems.

"You're both quite terrible at _not_ standing out, whether it's those dashing looks or atrocious personalities," Annalise says, "but this requires one to be very still, no swords, no magic."

I have fought—no,  _sparred_ —without magic before, but that was to train for the staff, how to hold it and balance it in my hands. “No magic at all?" 

“Until something goes wrong, yes. No magic at all.” She smiles. "It would be interesting to see you handle yourself when you can't rely on your magic."

The idea of not being able to use the one thing I've trained in for years is unimaginable and frightening. So I do what calms me, "I am half of a pair," I hold Ditrik’s hand. “Let him come too.”

Ditrik looks pleased. I know he would like to join too. "My prince demands it!" He grins, lacing our fingers together.

Annalise returns his grin with a charming smirk, "sorry, not this time, Seraphinian." It's teasing.

Ditrik only laughs while I turn red. When Annalise leaves, Ditrik mutters under his breath, “I think I would be quite happy, to be Seraphinian.”

 

++

 

Annalise takes me to a corner of the Inquisition camp and introduces me to The Whispers. She points at a tall, strong-built man, arms bulging like trees and a intimidating look on his face. "This," she pats his arm. "is Brigand. Quiet fellow, but bears a kind heart." She lowers her voice, whispering only to me, "my favorite."

Brigand stretches out his hand to shake my mine. It's surprisingly gentle. "Marek Pavus, right?"

I nod, "yes. Nice to meet you."

He suddenly lifts my arms, inspecting them, "you don't carry much strength in your arms, do you?" He sounds disappointed. Then he squeezes my shoulders and a smile breaks on his face—making him look far too gentle-looking, as if a rude word would break his heart. "Ah, there it is, strong chest," he jabs me with a fist, and I grunt from the impact. "Strong shoulders." 

"Stop accosting the boy, please," Annalise says at the same time, pulling me towards her.

"I look forward to working alongside you, Brigand." I say as Annalise drags me away to meet the others. We approach another when Annalise snaps her fingers at a man sitting on the ground to pick at his toes. He's bony, and his face is gaunt—almost a corpse and a shiver goes through me. "This disgusting fellow," Annalise sighs, "is Yarrick. Ugly face with an ugly personality, but he gets things done." 

"Nice to meet you," I say out of politeness.

Yarrick glances my way, before going back to picking at his feet. "We're taking the Inquisitor's precious son? What would happen if he gets his throat slit during the mission?" He says it so nonchalantly and Annalise rolls her eyes.

"Yarrick is also our in-house downer and wins the shit-person of the year award _every year_." Annalise retorts, slapping the back of his head before whisking me away to meet the very last of The Whispers.

She bats the flap of a tent open and waves me to come in, "our dear leader, Karan." When I walk in, Annalise winks at me before leaving. I didn't like being left alone with strangers, but I tolerate it.

"Marek Pavus," he says with a smile. The man looks plain, on the shorter side and one of his ears are missing. He extends a hand and I take it. "I hear you are a man of many talents."

I give a polite laugh, "I don't think that's quite true, sir." 

"A magic cultivated by Dorian Pavus, further nurtured by Grand Enchanter Madame Vivienne, and shaped by  _Le Chuchotement's_ own Annalise Fortesque." He smiles knowingly, "I think you sell yourself short. Great mages like them don't just teach anyone. It will be an honor to see that fire of yours."

"If the Maker is cruel, He will provide many wars for me to use them." I say, knowing very well I have only been taught to this degree because of the war. 

He pauses, thinking, then nods, "yes, that is right. Then may I never see those flames of yours." He brings my attention to the map on the table. "Have you heard the plan?"

"Not in detail," I say, remembering the map Annalise had drawn earlier.

"Here," he places his finger to the east of Andoral’s Reach, "there were reports that scouts without Orlesian, Ferelden, or Inquisition sigils are gathering there to restock supplies. After further inspection, we came to the conclusion that they are Mien’Harel scouts—to possibly bypass Kal-Sharok, Andoral's Reach, Churneau, Ghislain, and Montfort to gain access to more of the Imperial Highway. They’re army is composed of untrained citizens, but recently, we’ve had an influx of soldiers defecting. Even then, if they manage to slip through, we will lose Orlais in a matter of months.”

Karan turns the map over to show me, "we're going to make our way here, through the tree line and up this side of the mountain. It should be quick enough to get us where we need to be, and hidden enough to keep ourselves from getting noticed." I try to remember everything he said, but they slip from my mind.

"Also," he continues, "we're only going to be sabotaging their supplies. You'll have to be okay with that. It means destroying water and food supplies, tampering with carts and caravans, poisoning their horses—among other things." Karan's eyes bores into me. "If you think this is not something you can do, let me know now."

The hesitation must be showing on my face. “But why me?" 

Karan smiles, " _Le Chuchotement_ has always specialized in getting in and out of enemy camps quietly and quickly. We do missions like these—poisoning, assassinating, and subterfuge. But soon, the war will come to a crescendo and there will be little use for work like these— _you_ are someone who can pull us out of that."

"I don't understand," I say.

"If this mission goes well Marek Pavus," he drags his words. " _Le Chuchotement_ will come out of the shadows and fight in the light with you by our side."

I take a deep breath, "you're asking me to join you?"

"I am."

It is enough for me, "when do we leave?"

"Meet us at sundown."  

++

 

I meet with Ry’del and I tell him everything. Trust is not built on keeping things secret and I will not let stupid secrets spoil my relationship with Ry’del. Still, we battle like this at times.

“I am still going, whether you approve of it or not.” I say.

“Still, let me tell you why I do not approve of this.” He is deep in thought, staring at nothing in particular. I have learned that we’re both stubborn—but there are days where he relents, understanding the circumstances. This is not this day. “Those Orlesians, The Whispers—they are not soldiers and they have been sponsored by Empress Celene. That makes them unpredictable. I will not speak of morals in war, but those types have no problem disregarding their morals in war. I cannot abide by that.”

I scoff, "so this is what you've thought of Annalise the whole time." 

"Annalise is a talented mage, and she has taught you many things," he says, "but being a good teacher doesn't mean they can't do bad."

“What of the alliance with Orlais? What better way to show we are capable of supporting them by sending _your own_ son to aid them?” I retort.

He gives pause, “If something goes wrong—.”

“And why do you always assume something will go wrong?” I’m indignant. “Do you think I’m not capable?”

“That’s not it.” He says.

“You tell me of battles and wars. You praise me. And yet you tell me this and that will go wrong.”

“I’m just trying to warn—”

“Has all your praise been lies?” I interrupt.

He shakes his head, “no. You’re equipped for war, Marek.” He says softly—dejectedly. "Far too ready and equipped for war."

“Why must you constantly watch over my shoulder?” I want an answer. “Tell me bluntly.” I demand.

“Working in The Whispers is not the same as fighting in a battlefield _ma’da’len_.” I see the tension in his jaws and his knitted brows.

“ _Tell me then_.”

Ry’del looks me straight in the eyes, with a calmness that irks me. How could he be so calm when I’m heated and hurt? “Because I am scared.” He says it so gently. “I know you are skilled in battle, but so much can go wrong. You are young, nerves still flow through you and I can sense it, like a dog hunting a rabbit. But once you step into that battlefield, you become bold and confident. Soon, you act like you're the only soldier in battle and try to take on everyone around you. I have seen you. You and your risky disregard for your own life."

He looks to my feet, "I can’t bear to even think of it. What would I do then, if your riskiness forces a stray arrow to you?”

“You’re trying to instill a fear in me.”

“And it’s not fair,” he admits. 

“ _Ma dirtha mah ga melana_.” I accuse. " _Ar elana halani ara'le_."

He looks away for a moment, then, " _mah ea a babae lath_.”

I say it without thinking, “ _mar lath aria em_.” I regret it immediately.

“Perhaps you should cool your head.” Ry’del looks away, as if dismissing me.

Despite everything, I know why Ry'del is so protective. But I feel suffocated and wish he would trust me more. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to say it.” 

He only sighs, “ _abelas sul ahn?_ " He pats my hand. " _Ar ame telir a delavir alin sul esh'ala ar lath._ "

“I’ll promise to fight and live as long as you do too.” I try to smile.

He pats my cheek, a sad smile on his face. “ _Ahn ea ma’sal’shiral emaronem to esh’ala ar nuvena to ama_?”

I keep his words close to my heart.

 

++

 

“Annalise really isn’t letting me join you,” Ditrik leans on my shoulder, “that’s unfair, don’t you think?”

I shrug, still occupied with Ry’del’s words and the prospect of being a part of the _Le Chuchotement_. I wonder if they would let Ditrik join.

“Hey,” he tugs on my arm. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“Am I?” I cross my arms, “maybe I’m nervous that you won’t be there by my side.” It is partly in jest.

He gives a playful gasp, “did all my flirting finally break you?!” He lifts his hands to his mouth, eyes wide.

It makes me laugh, "has it?” I tease. I shake my head, "I have been invited to join  _Le Chuchotement_."

“That’s good news!” Ditrik slings his arm around my shoulders as we walk through the fortress to reach the southern ramparts. 

“Is it? Am I ready?” I shake my head, my heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest.

“If you can fight alongside the Inquisitor and keep up, you are more than ready.” He says, letting go to climb the ladder. “ _And_ since you seem to be able to handle pairing with me just fine, I think that's a big testament to your ability to adapt." 

I laugh, "yes, your sword swinging and screaming does take a special sort of talent to ignore." 

"Marek Pavus can be quite the tease when he wants to be," Ditrik winks. "Come on, I want to show you something.”

With my nervousness unappeased, I follow behind him, hoping he’d provide me with a distraction I desperately needed.

“Here,” Ditrik stretches out his hand and pulls me up. We make our way to the tallest tower, I wonder what he has to show me—we’ve been here multiple times and it has always been the same. Evidence of our occupation is littered everywhere—our books, letters, drawings, clothes, toys, among other things. Ditrik ignores it all and pulls on a latch that brings down the ceiling door. He props a ladder on it and climbs it. “Up here,” he says and I follow.

Ditrik forward against the parapet, dangerously peering below him when I pull myself up. “Careful,” I say and he turns around, taking my hand in his. He gives me s quick smile and slides a charm on my finger.

“The vendor said it’s suppose to ward off demons. But, who knows, she could have been lying.” He is grinning from ear to ear, pleased with himself. I bite my lip.

“What's this for,” I ask. I see how my hands tremble.

He hums, “I vaguely remember it being your nameday around this time of year.” He said. "Then we have a few months where we're the same age."

I laugh weakly, “it’s in a fortnight.”

“Ah, then, I am the first to greet you. See how good I am?” He flashes a proud grin. “Now that''s all over and done with," he takes a deep breath, edges towards the tower wall, and exhales loudly, “don't you love this place? Smells like sun, sand, with a hint of gunpowder.”

I stare at the smooth obsidian marquise on my finger, I don’t sense any magic from it, but it reminds me of Father’s. My face burns at what this looks like. Does he do it on purpose? Ditrik is kind to all. But not like this, I think. Am I special? I join him by his side, cautious of the height and the thrumming in my chest. “Ditrik,” I mutter, even embarrassed to say his name now. I keep my eyes down.

He leans forward, peering up, "yes?" There is a gentle smile on his face.

I tug at the hem of his sleeves, “Thank you.”

He nods, smiling even wider, "you're welcome." 

"Is this what you wanted to show me?" I sigh, batting away at what I know is bubbling deep inside.

Ditrik pulls me in front of him, hands clasped on my shoulders. “Look out,” he says.

I shrug, completely aware of how close he is to me, “as you said, sun, sand, and gunpowder.”

He leans forward, his cheek pressed against mine. It’s hot. “Look farther,” his voice low and close to a whisper. It sends a shiver through me and I feel my face grow warmer.

“More sand,” I manage.

“And farther than that?”

“Orlais.” I recall a map of Thedas.

“Fine, but beyond that.”

I shrug, “the Free Marches?”

Ditrik groans and puts his weight on me, “and beyond that, Marek?” A hint of laughter, his arms wrap around my waist.

“Amaranthine Ocean. Then...I don’t know.” I grab his arms, wanting only for a second to pull them off.

“Yes, we don’t know.” He sighs, letting go to stand next to me. “Aren’t you curious?”

“I suppose, but there are many other things that occupy my thoughts.” I cannot see what he can. What a wonderful mind, I think.

“Should we find out in the future?” Determination sits on his face, “after all this is over?”

I think of that life, where Ditrik and I travel and fight, enjoy life with a freedom we don’t have now. I imagine returning to Thedas, with gifts on hand, exchanging stories with Ry'del. It would be bliss, to spend my days that way. And Ditrik and I would—would  _what_ _?_ My mind challenges.

“Promise me then,” I say, turning to face him. Almost desperate, because all things come at once and I cannot take it. When his eyes meet mine, I know it. I understand completely yet not at all. My heart tightens and my face is hot.

It’s fitting, I think, how his blue eyes is what pulls me from this desert.

Ditrik frowns, his hands cradle my face, “Marek, are you alright?”

My breathing is heavy and the sun seems to grow hotter every second. “I—” I shake my head. What am I doing? What _will_ I do?  _Do it_. I think. Quickly. My eyes flicker to his lips and he sees this. I pull him to me—like a string pulled taut. I tilt my head.  

“Wait.” Ditrik steadies me, breathless, eyes searching mine.

And the string breaks.

I look at him, horrified at what I had almost done. He tries to touch me but I move back, “sorry.” I mutter, “I didn’t—sorry.” With that, I run, the ring feeling heavier on my finger.

 

++

 

Karan leads us up the mountains—we don’t stop and continue through the night. It’s hard work, but I welcome the distraction. It is dawn when we reach our vantage point and we set up our camp. It’s different from what I am used to. We don’t have tents, instead, we pile leaves and twigs to make the ground somewhat comfortable. I am told not to make a fire and Annalise rubs dirt on my face and arms.

“Here,” Brigand hands me dried meat and bread. “Eat.”

The food is hard and too salty, but I finish it quickly and listen to their quiet stories in the dark. They don't say much about what they have done, but they tell of their lives.

“We do much more dangerous work,” Yarrick complains, “and never get credit for it.”

Karan smiles, “because credit is not what we’re after. If we know we prevented more casualties, isn’t that reward enough, Yarrick?”

He only scoffs, “that hardy honor of yours is irritating.”

Annalise laughs, "only more hardy than Karan's honor is in Brigand's bed-mates."

“Is it? Well, I've been more honorable after the birth of my daughter.” Karan puts a hand to his chin. “Yarrick, you and your wife should have children soon—it would melt that wonderful disposition of yours.”

I am surprised to hear someone as unpleasant as Yarrick is married.

“It’s true,” Brigand interjects. “Children are a joy.”

"Says the man with many bastards," Karan chuckles.

Annalise rolls her eyes, “what kind of old-men conversation are we having here? I’m looking forward to having some young blood to liven us up a little bit.” She leans on me.

“You’re one to talk,” Yarrick sneers, “how many trips have you made to the Black Emporium to hide that age of yours?”

She narrows her eyes a him, “say anything more and I’ll give you a much bigger reason than age to visit the Black Emporium.”

A horn is heard somewhere in the distance. Brigand glances up, “past noon,” he says and Karan nods. They move quickly, pulling on strings and hiding any sign of our presence.

“Let’s take a rest. By the time we wake up, it will be time to go.” Karan fixes the leaves on the group to make it resemble some sort of cot. "Who will take first watch?"

I volunteer.

“Wake me up for next watch,” Brigand says.

“Yes,” I lie and keep watch until the moon is high in the sky.

 

++

 

“Remember, we have a duty,” Dorian watches Alphonse kiss his daughter’s forehead. 

Vinaeres wipes her face, “I have a duty.” She says. “Stay well, papa, we will meet again.”

Alphonse looks at Dorian, a knowing message passed through them.

_Take care of my daughter._

Dorian nods and pulls Vinaeres up the horse. “Make for Val Royeaux, if you can,” he calls. “Madame Vivienne will help you find us.”

Alphonse raises a hand, “if ever.”

“Hold tight, Vinaeres,” Dorian says and brings the horse to full speed. Wind rushes past them with a frantic wail, the war horns blaring in the distance.

Dorian looks back one more time. There, past the shores of Tallo, Qunari dreadnoughts break through the fog and Alphonse stands tall, like a single rose in its dying garden.

 

++

 

The moon's sliver of light provides us with the only what we need. Annalise searches my face, “you haven’t slept.”

“Youthful stamina,” I say, smiling to appease the concern growing on her face. 

But it is not worry for me, “make sure you keep your head. I will need you sane."

We bury our weapons at camp before traversing down the mountain and take our positions meters away. Karan orders me to stick with Yarrick, and I bristle at this, but Annalise gives me a reassuring look. I watch Karan and Annalise make their way down the mountain and moves towards the west side of the camp. Brigand, I realize, is already nowhere to be seen.

"Surprised?" Yarrick grumbles. " _Le Chuchotement_ is made out of rogues except for Annalise and Selty—the one your Inquisitor sent north to Kassel, of all places." 

His irritation isn't lost to me, "and now I'm here." 

"Now you're here," he doesn't even look me, " _un remplacement de merde._ " 

" _Alia etiam linua lokuis possum."_ I retort in a petty way. " _Pala ma_." 

Yarrick raises his eyebrows, knowing what I am trying to do. “You don’t look like a Vint.” He says instead, only glancing before eyeing the distance, keeping watch for Karan's signal.

“I’m a Marcher,” I reply, curt. Karan gives us his signal and we continue down the mountain, keeping light at our toes.

"Didn't know Pavus had bastard sons." Yarrick comments, pulling me closer to the ground as we near the camp.

"I'm not a bastard." I say coldly. "He took me in as his son."

"Adopted," Yarrick snickers. "Should have known. It's not he _could_ have bastards. Unless he got curious one day." 

I ignore it. He is trying to get to me, but such comments are all I've heard before. "I'll let this one go, Yarrick." I say instead. "The next one will not be so pleasant." 

He says nothing and smiles a crooked smile. 

We reach the south side of the camp and flush ourselves against the wooden barracks.

“There is an opening here,” Yarrick whispers, pulling down loose wooden log. “These elves never know how to build fences with all their halla running wild.” He mutters.

I carefully walk over, keeping my head down as we infiltrate the camp. Yarrick hands me two vials. “Pour one into the horse's’ drinking trough, and the other into their water barrels.”

Poison. I realize. My hands tremble, knowing I’ll be killing them and I wouldn’t even see the body. I do as I am told and make my way to the horses. They remain calm at my presence and I say a silent apology as I poured  the contents of the vial into their water. Hopefully, the poison would be potent enough to kill them painlessly and quickly. I do the same with the water barrels and I make my way back from where I came from. I glance around, trying to see where the rest are. When I look up, I see a scout walking towards me. I curse at my mistake and move around a tent, blocking myself from his view. But he makes a turn to where I am, and before I know it, we’re face to face. The scout gasps and tries to ready his weapon, but Yarrick appears in front of him and they clash for short while until the scout falls to his back. Yarrick clamps his hand over the scout’s mouth and nose and he thrashes about. I’m unnerved about how quiet it is, with just the sounds of clothing rustling and dirt being kicked around.

“Fuck,” Yarrick flinched back, he’s looking at his hand—it’s bleeding.

The scout shoves Yarrick up, “Hel— !” But Yarrick doesn’t let him finish and violently pushes one shoulder down while the other hand rams into the scout’s head. I hear a snap and my blood turns to ice. Listening if others heard it too. Nothing but a soft breeze and the howling of wolves in the distance.

“Let’s go,” I say, walking towards Yarrick, who is taking care of his wound. I try not to look at the body, but something in me tells me to. The scout is an elf—a young man, no older than I am. Bone juts out just above his collar bone. My stomach turns and I swallow.

“ _La pute lapin._ ” Yarrick is angry, I could feel it and my magic reacts. I feel it building, readying itself for the unknown. Yarrick spits on the body, before kneeling down to grab its face.

“What are you doing?” I demand, everything is wrong. This is wrong.

He says nothing and takes out a small blade he kept hidden in his clothes.

“Stop,” I say, my heart is beating fast. I want to vomit.

“These rabbits,” he starts making cuts on the body’s face, “are the reason for rot in the world.”

“Stop it.” I say again, and I can feel the magic raging inside me. "Yarrick, don't make me stop you." I grab his arm.

He shakes me off easily, standing to face me, “make me what? Stop? This _petit lapin_ attacked me first. Cut me right here." He raises his hand. 

"You were bitten, that's hardly a wound." I'm disgusted by him. 

He scoffs, as if I suggested something utterly unreasonable. "They carry diseases. Spread their filthy lies.  _Whores!_ " 

"Watch yourself, Yarrick." I warn, a strange sudden calm enveloping me.

Yarrick sneers, "even the Herald of Andraste himself spreads his legs to embrace the cock of Vi—!"

His face contorts and he coughs, blood spluttering on me. I take a step back and the spirit blade in my hands dissipate. 

"Oops," Annalise suddenly says behind me. "I got here too late!"

Karan who is just behind her, pushes her aside and knelt down Yarrick. "What is the meaning of this?!" His eyes are wild, staring straight at me—a look of pure shock.

"I can explain," I breathe. I know in my heart I feel no regrets. 

"No need, Marek." Annalise says. 

Karan turns and rushes towards her, "what did you do?" He demands. "Is this a set up?" His voice is loud enough to rouse others. 

"Shhh," Annalise hums, "not too loud." 

"Did you know about this?" Karan looks at me and I shake my head. I am as confused as he is. 

Annalise raises her arms, "oh, the boy knows nothing, leave him alone." Then, she smiles. "You've been a great friend, Karan. But the Grand Enchanter doesn't tolerate stupid mistakes." 

Karan's eyes widen at the realization and Brigand appears behind him, yanking his forehead back and slitting his throat. 

“Annalise, explain.” I demand, as the body falls to the ground. 

She looks at me, “listen, Marek." 

"I hear nothing." I answer.

"Exactly," she nods. "There are no Mien'Harel scouts—they're all dead. Brigand took care of all of them before we even snuck into the camp. Except for that one," she glances at the elf. 

"Missed him," Brigand shrugs. "Sorry, Ann." 

She pats his arm to assure him before returning her focus to me. " _This_ is what I wanted to show you. The other side of war. The quiet ones that happen—The Whispers, if you would accept the nickname."

I feel vulnerable without my staff, "who do you work for?"

"Do you not listen?" Annalise reaches to pinch my cheek and I slap her hand away. "We work directly under Madame Vivienne who supports the Inquisition. So by proxy,  _we,_ Brigand and I, work for the benefit of the Inquisition. Vivienne ordered Karan and Yarrick's assassinations for trading poison to a Mien’Harel supporter for information. It was suppose to be a ruse, but they gave them the real ones instead. The result of that mistake? The Mignonne Massacre. One that you’re familiar with, if I’m correct.”

My stomach turns, too many thinks are happening at once. The rich smell of blood fills my nose and I feel myself gagging.

"We will talk more later," Annalise rubs my back, noticing my discomfort. It does little to help and I vomit where I stand. "Goodness," she sighs. Brigand hands me a flask of water when I've emptied the contents of my stomach. 

"Does the Inquisitor know about this?" I spit the water from my mouth. 

Annalise shakes her head, "Whispers, remember?" Then she starts setting the camp on fire. "Marek, isn't is unfortunate, that Yarrick was caught by a Mien'Harel scout and was killed? Karan tried to save him but was ambushed by another Mien'Harel soldier. It's so very sad to deliver the news that both Karan and Yarrick were killed in the line of duty. And no, we do not have the bodies. Their fight roused the camp and there was chaos. The chaos set off fires and burned the camp down along with their bodies. They were no survivors. No survivors except you, Brigand, and me. Isn't it so  _very_ unfortunate, Marek?" 

She doesn't blink and she doesn't look away once. I understand what she wants me to do. "It is unfortunate," I say, casting an immolation spell on the bodies in front of me.

 

++

 

Annalise and I arrive at Andoral’s Reach the night after, Annalise tells me to get sleep and visit Ry’del in the morning. She will talk to him first. I don’t have the strength to argue and head towards the tents. Ditrik is inside, preparing for bed. “I did not think you’d be returning tonight.” His eyes wide at my appearance. “Your hands are shaking.” I look at my hands, surprised.

“That’s strange,” I mumble, dried blood under my fingernails. Yarrick’s blood. I try to push the guilt from my head. He was awful—and said unforgivable things. But Karan, it's not as easy to accept. And what of his family? That’s right, Karan has a family—and we took him away from them. Or did he deserve it? What would Annalise say to them? How many false stories are woven to appease a narrative because of stupid mistakes?

“Marek,” Ditrik says softly, reaching for my hands. “Marek,” he calls. My head grows dizzy and it's hot. 

“Stop,” I slap his hands away. When I look at him, his face blurs and the last thing I hear is Ditrik shouting my name.

 

++

 

My thoughts swallow me at night and I start seeing demons by my bed. Standing like priests waiting for me to breathe my last.

“He’s ingested some poison—a small dose.”

“Was it…?”

“No. Too small of a trace, just an accident.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Yes, yes. The fever is pushing it out of his body.”

“With the lack of sleep he’s been getting, he looks worse than he is.”

“ _Myathash to ma ma’isa’ma’lin_.”

“ _Las son, isa’ma’lin_.”

“Can I stay here?”

“Of course, he will be happy to see you.”

“Perhaps.”

My eyes open and Ry’del is by my cot, he is asleep and I feel selfish. “ _Babae_ ,” my throat feels awful. He doesn’t rouse, so I reached out, my fingers  touching his cheek. It is a strange feeling, with all the scars on his face.

His eyes snap open, and he looks right at me, “Marek,” he leans close, “how do you feel?”

“Sore and tired.” I groan, trying to sit and Ry’del helps me up. “How long have I been out?”

“Two days,” he says.

I remember the mission, “you were right—about the Orlesians. I don’t think I could do that again.” My stomach turns thinking about it. “If I knew, I would have said no.”

Ry’del glances away, “maybe. But it is in the past, the choice has already been made.”

“ _Babae_ ,” I say, barely a whisper, “I swear never to make mistakes again. _Ar dirtha'var'en._ ”

He says nothing, and for the first time, I cannot read his expression.

 

++

 

I wake up with a start, my breathing jagged. I’m covered in cold sweat and Ditrik presses a cool cloth to my forehead. I shrink away, but he doesn’t let me.

“You were talking in your sleep.” He props me up and his face is too close to mine. My heart is still unsettled.

“I had a nightmare,” I rub my face with my hands, trying to calm the shakiness in my limbs. “What did I say?”

He shrugs, “you were speaking Elven.” He brushes my hair away from my face, “do you want me to fetch you some water?” Concern knitted between his brow. I watch his face carefully.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He pretends to forgive me so easily, busying himself with the cloth.

“I’ve hurt you, I think.”

Ditrik huffs, bothered, “I'm not hurt.”

I cry quietly, letting tears fall from my eyes. How pathetic I must look. I cannot sort what I’m feeling. The remnants of the night terrors, reminding me of what fear feels like. “Sorry,” I say again.

He takes a deep breath, “do you want to talk about your dreams? Has the honey not been helping?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” images of demons ravage my mind and I do my best to push it out.

“Then,” he says, “do you want me to give you some space?”

I take deep breaths. “I want to talk.”

“Alright,” Ditrik is not his usual self. “When you left, Scout Harding came by and had captains dancing, for a while she _almost_ convinced he Inquisitor to join. Even Cabot joined i—!”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” I interrupt and he inhales sharply.

“Then what?” He tries a smile.

I think of many things, but I settle on, “I don’t know.”

Ditrik covers his face with his hand for a moment then looks straight at me, “how about what happened in the tower? Can we talk about that?”

The tower. My face is on fire but I hesitate only for a moment, “I wanted to kiss you.”

“Why?” It’s demanding.

I look at him, reading him. I notice his blue eyes, so bright, a frown settled between his brows. And the tinge of pink on his cheeks—how could someone have pretty skin? His flicks to lick his lips. “Because I think I love you.” It’s strange to say the words.

He looks like he’s about to cry. “You _think_?”

“I know.” I’m surprised at my lack of hesitation. Then, “I want to kiss you.”

Ditrik looks away. “You’re too forward. It’s embarrassing.”

“Ditrik,” I tug on his sleeve.

“Yes?” he turns, and when he does, I pull him in. Lips crushing together. When he opens his mouth, I chase his taste. My lips are dry, but his are so soft. Then, Ditrik pushes away. I stare at his face, lips swollen and wet. He gives me a look, confused. I say nothing, but crane my head forward. He laughs quietly, rubbing his thumb over my lips. “You’re sticking your tongue out.” He presses his thumb over my tongue and smiles. “Are you asking for another kiss?” He rubs my lips again, harder this time, and I feel a sting.

I think quickly, “yes.” So he kisses me, gently first, but his hands are in my hair and I hold on to his robes. He presses his body against mine and I grow hard under my clothes. When Ditrik notices, props himself up to look at me..

“Sorry,” I breath, but I feel hot and I do my best not to touch myself. “I—!”  

Ditrik stands, straightening his robes. “This has gone too far, don’t you think?” His face is red, a strain in his voice.

“No,” I mumble, delirious. “I—I’m sorry. Please, don’t—don’t leave.” I grasp at his robes and he sits on the cot, leaning forward, his forehead to mine.

“What do you want Marek,” He asks quietly, there is an ache in his voice and I wish to heal it.

I say it without thinking, “I want you.”

Ditrik’s breath is shaky and he pulls away again. His back is to me when he disrobes, skin scarred from old wounds. I swallow, did I stare too much? He glances over his shoulder, almost daring me to look away. When Ditrik turns around, I’m flush. “Here,” he takes my hand and settles it on his bare chest. I feel his heart beating wildly. “Listen carefully Marek,” he pushes me on my back and straddles me, kissing my hands. “if you start to regret it, tell me and it would be as if it never happened.”

 

When Ditrik collapses by my side, covered in sweat and seed, I regret nothing at all.

 

++

 

I spend the night thinking if this is a dream—and if hearts can feel such bliss. Ditrik stirs beside me and press my face into his back. He feels warm, so I hug him tighter.

“Don’t hold on so tightly,” Ditrik groans sleepily, pulling at my hands. “My stomach hurts.”

“Are you okay,” I ask in a whisper. “Did I hurt you?” He sighs, rolling over to face me.

Ditrik touches the shell of my ear. “It takes more than your clumsiness to hurt me.” I bite my lips to keep myself from saying anything embarrassing.

“I’ll take it slow next time.” I say.

“Next time?” He smirks. “That’s a cheeky thought.”

My stomach turns, “was it—? You don’t want this.” More question than statement.

Ditrik pushes my hair from my face, as he always did, “are you really in love Marek?” He caresses my cheek.

“I kissed you.”

“Yes.” He licks his lips—did he do it unconsciously? I kiss him. “You’ve kissed others, did you love them?”

“Not like this.” I say. “We slept with each other.”

“Yes.”

I look away, “I tell you everything.”

“You do.”

“You’re also my friend.” Reasons come. “And it’s comfortable being by your side.”

“That’s good to know.”

I am frustrated with his small answers, “so, is that love?”

Ditrik shrugs, “you tell me.”

“It is.” I decide. What makes him so cautious?

“Would you be satisfied if I didn’t love you?” It’s a harsh and stony question. It hurts too much, to know I could love him this much and not have it returned.

“No,” I admit. “I want you to love me too.”

Ditrik hums, a small smile on his face—hiding secrets. “Then,” he rolls on top of me, peppering small kissing on my lips, “let me satisfy your love.” 

Days later, I find that I am happy. My heart sings and it finds solace in a love I did not think I would have. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes are long. Translations in beginning notes!  
> \+ First of all, this chapter was a pain. There was so much snipping and readjusting and rewriting. For those of you who don't know--I don't think I've ever mentioned my actual process for writing. So after I do chapter outline, I take notes on what important things I really wanted to put across. I messed up for this chapter which means the other chapters are going to be harder too. But for this chapter, I accidentally put in too many *Important* scenes. Originally, this focused on FOUR big scenes. Four big scenes which is basically two chapters. Anyway, after that step, I write the scenes I want to stand out. In this particular chapter the part with Yarrick and Marek and Ditrik and Marek. It was going well, at the beginning, the scenes were written out, I just needed to fill in the rest. But as I did, I was reaizing slowly that I'm putting in too many IMPORTANT sccenes. I don't really want to say what I cut out because they're still going to be in the story, just not in this chapter. So then, some parts didn't align niccely and so I had to change so much and the flow got kind of disrupted. I'm sorry. This chapter is probably not the best. just because of how cut and paste this was. I started editing at 10am and got done around 6pm.  
> \+ The ship from Tallo came! And Dorian is finally on his way OUT of Tevinter. Which spells a lot of good things for our protagonists! You probably realized that duty vs relationships is the theme here. At this point in time, I think Dorian has accepted that his being alive is a duty. He knows something and to help win the war, so right now staying alive is a priority. I like to think that Dorian accepts that Marek might be dead--knowing that he was in Tevinter when it all happened while Ry'del was not at the time. That's what he knows. So, to him, Ry'del has a higher chance of living. What could he do right? But think about things more logically. Interestingly enough, Marek does the same thing. It's a testament to how bad it got in Tevinter.  
> \+ Seraphinian is a reference to the codex entry, "Responsible Blood Magic." You guys should read it. ;) The boys only get part of the reference though and Annalise was probably refering to the whole thing.  
> \+ Marek and Ry'del...oh boy. Okay, so this orignally was a MUCH LIGHT HEARTED chat, but it didn't match the progression, so this was so last minute and it because a look at Marek's frustration. He's going to be a part of a team! But Ry'del always seems to stop him and for Ry'del's part, he's worried. He doesn't want anything to happen to Marek, but Marek reads into it a little differently. At the end though, there is a reconciliation, which some big whopping words from the Inquisitor!  
> \+ I DIED writing Ditrik and Marek's part. Not in a heart squeeze kind of cute way, but more like, do I go subtle? Or do I just go for it? I decided to go for it. Add a lot of tension and just went with it. Ugh. I don't know. Ditrik, in general is a toouchy feely person. It doesn't show much because we don't get his perspective (I really wish I could write his perspective). And, this is a callback, actually, to something that has happened in Ry'del's life, but it ends better for Marek. Haha.  
> \+ Then we get to Annalise... oh Annalise... so this side of her was hinted at in a few chapters back, when Marek says she smells nice. The smells nice part is from something else that Marek said about how there are people who perfume themselves with flowers but are rotting inside. In any case, I think Marek trusts her a little bit less.  
> \+ Back to Ditrik and Marek. Well. There you have it, I guess. But considering Ditrik...we see a more vulnerable side of him, and it's really just him being cautious. He doesn't know how legitimate Marek's feelings are, thinking they're in the moment (maybe they are, who knows), but he knows he's at fault for sort of playing with the idea. A part of him definitely wanted this to happen. But he's still cautious--just look at the way he talks to Marek, "tell me if you regret it" and "I'll satisfy YOUR love." Just, he's trying hard to not put himself into it too much. Where this will go? I wonder.  
> \+ The next chapter is going to be a long while. Just...with how messed up this chapter got, in terms of editing and flow, I have to readjust and it may be that there will be one extra chapter but it would be short.  
> \+ Thank you for reading the notes! If you have any questions, comments, or predictions (I'm really interested in these!) let me know! I love interacting with whoever is reading. Shout out to all the commentators and the Kudos givers. I appreciate the love!!!  
> \+ MUSIC bonus!  
> Have a listen to Sa Bir by Dir en Grey to feel half of what Marek feels when he wakes up from nightmares/terrors.  
> Have a listen to Rabbit's Quartet by Kashiwa Daisuke to feel that anxiety of slowly falling in love.


	18. Magister, a Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Vinaeres heads to Kassel.

**IMPORTANT NOTICE**

Hello there readers! I decided to put this notice here just in case you skip the beginning notes and go straight to the story and I have something important to say! I mean, as important as notes can be for a fanfic. Here it is: **I HIGHLY recommend that you reread Chapter 17.** Why? Because I edited it and was so unhappy with it. I have changed quite a bit and I think it makes for a better read this time around. It would also give you better context for this chapter. But if you don't want to read it again, here is a list of what exactly is new:

  * Translation For the Masses: Added and corrected some translations.
  * _Le Chuchotement_ or The Whispers is Annalise's team.
  * This line: "I think I would be quite happy, to be Seraphinian." from Ditrik.
  * This wonderful line from Annalise: "Yarrick is also our in-house downer and wins the shit-person of the year award  _every year_." 
  * And generally, more interaction with Yarrick, Brigand, and Karan.
  * Especially Karan--he gets a small scene with Marek.
  * The part with Ry'del and Marek talking is neater and more elven. Ry'del also gives a spiel. 
  * The Tower scene is tighter and neater. Some added interactions, but remains the same.
  * When Annalise, Marek, and the others are on the Vantage Point, there is more reveal of personalities and it's highly recommended to read that part, but biggest thing is Yarrick is married, Karan is not very honorable, and Brigand sleeps around.
  * I HIGHLY recommend that if you don't reread anything else, you reread the part where they go on the mission. Yarrick's death is more satisfying. Biggest change is that the other member is named and Brigand survives this.
  * Following this part, Marek's inner turmoil is slightly different, but largely unchanged.
  * DEFINITELY reread the last part with Dorian, I changed this 12/7 so if you read it before then, it's completely different. If you don't want to bother keep reading, if not, then I'll see you back here after you read the last part!



And with that, all changes accounted for. Now please enjoy the story that finally got back on track. Smh.

* * *

 

**|| Magister, a Prisoner**

**|| Nineteen.**

 

_There is a golden house upon a golden hill._

_Golden lights shine to create a path and he follows it. His body is heavy and he knows he mustn't, but he follows anyway._

_On golden stairs, he climbs, each step more excruciating than the last._

_He knocks on golden doors, and it makes a booming sound, like a dragon’s roar. It opens and everything is silent. Not even his own breathing makes a sound._

_He steps in, fear dancing on his skin._

_And it is as he thought, golden floors, golden walls, golden ceilings—impossible to reach._

_He follows still._

_Deeper and deeper until he sees where the light is brightest._

_Nothing good could be behind the door, but he opens it. Forced to see what it reveals._

_He gasps, a golden boy sits on a throne, looking straight at him._

_“— — — .” Words jumbled and incoherent._

 

_Then blood spills. Impossibly red._

 

++

 

Dorian wakes up with a start, roused from the screech of high dragon flying miles and miles away. He turns to Vinaeres and she’s curled up in a blanket, muttering in her sleep yet otherwise in deep sleep.

It has been a long time since he has had time to himself. Even just to think and be lost in his thoughts. He hates it, he decides, when a memory of Marek breaks away. Marek would be nineteen now, a grown man with his magic strongly controlled. Dorian wonders what specialization he would have chosen—Necromancy would not be it, Dorian almost laughs at the thought. Marek would be too scared and nervous. Becoming a Rift mage seems impossible for Marek, who could not calm his spirit enough. Dorian smiles, becoming a Knight-Enchanter was the only suitable role for his son. However, people change, Dorian knows this. For all he knows, Marek may not have even chosen a specialization and concentrated on molding his Inferno spells. Marek _would_ make a great Fire Mage.

Or, a thought suddenly intrudes. _Marek could be dead_.

Dorian grasps at his head, “stop it,” he mutters, pushing the thought away—locking it away in the back of his mind.

_Marek is dead, slain during the Siege of Minrathous. If only you looked, his body is still there, in the Pavus Manor with a knife through his heart._

“Stop.” Dorian groans, brows furrowing and slaps his palm of his head. “Stop,” he repeats—with more conviction.

_He’s nothing but bones now. Your lover could be right there with him too._

Dorian winces.

_Or worse. He was taken away, played with, and discarded._

Dorian tries to peer through the darkness, focusing on a lit torch far in the distance.

_What if your precious son is wandering cities with his mind gone? Asking for alms or selling the only thing he has?_

There is quiet laughter. Dorian groans, and slaps a palm to his forehead. He mutters a cleansing spell and envelopes himself in light. The whispering stops as fast as it started and Dorian takes a deep, calming breath.

“Are you alright,” Vinaeres asks, still under the covers, staring at him.

“Yes,” he lies, sighing. “Go back to sleep, Vinaeres. It’s not time yet.”

Vianeres stares some more before closing her eyes. “Demons whisper to me too,” she says. “Sometimes.”

Dorian does not sleep at all.

 

++

 

“Magister Pavus,” Vinaeres pulls the straps on their packs tight. “What is your plan once we get to Kassel?”

Dorian concentrates on packing the last of this things and erasing the last traces of evidence that they were ever here. “Announce who I am and hope they believe me?”

The frustration on Vinaeres is obvious, “you have to expect that the Inquisition thinks you are dead. How do you convince them you are Dorian Pavus?”

“I’m not difficult to forget me, don’t you agree?” He jokes, wanting to lighten the mood a little bit, but Vinaeres is tenacious. A planner and a perfectionist. He remembers training her in the arts of Necromancy. It was strange, comparing how she used her magic to the way Marek did. Marek was forceful, creative, and enigmatic—Vinaeres, on the other hand, was calculated, directed. Her stamina was strong and her mana reserves seemed to never drain. It would be interesting, Dorian thinks, to see Vinaeres’ control combined with Marek’s creativity.

“You need a plan.” She says, mounting her horse.

Irritated himself, Dorian hears the tension in his voice, “let’s take this one day at a time, shall we? You’re asking too much of me at the moment—and we don’t even have wine.”

“Magister Pavus,” Vinaeres takes a deep breath, “Please take this serio—”

“Don’t you dare say it, Vinaeres.” Dorian warns. “If you think I’m not taking this seriously, you are sorely mistaken.”

Vinaeres frowns, “I’m glad you are. This war has gone on too long—”

An arrow narrowly misses Vinaeres’ head as Dorian pull her off the horse. There is shouting around them and Dorian spots rogues and soldiers near the forest.

“We’ve got company,” Dorian mutters and Vinaeres grabs her staff from the ground where it fell. “Be ready to fight.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Vinaeres stands and casts a blinding terror, while Dorian casts an inferno spell to knock them down.

“Again!” Dorian yells, and Vinaeres does as she is told. A part of Dorian lights up, enjoying the feeling of casting spell after spell—letting sparks fly from his fingers. But then his eyes see it, the Inquisition sigil on their armors. It distracts him long enough that an arrow lodges itself on his shoulder.

“Magister!” Vinaeres screams as Dorian falls.

“Vinaeres,” Dorian calls, “put your staff down. Quickly!”

Soldiers surround them with spears and swords pointed at their throats. “Wait, wait!” Dorian lifts his arms up higher. “My name is Do—!”

Something hard hits his head and everything goes black.

 

++

 

_There is a golden house upon a golden hill._

_Golden lights shine to create a path and he follows it. His body is heavy and he knows he mustn't, but he follows anyway._

_On golden stairs, he climbs, each step more excruciating than the last._

_He knocks on golden doors, and it makes a booming sound, like a dragon’s roar. It opens and everything is silent. Not even his own breathing makes a sound._

_He steps in, fear dancing on his skin._

_And it is as he thought, golden floors, golden walls, golden ceilings—impossible to reach._

_He follows still._

_Deeper and deeper until he sees where the light is brightest._

_Nothing good could be behind the door, but he opens it. Forced to see what it reveals._

_He gasps, a golden boy sits on a throne, looking straight at him._

_“Lef ae ar.” Words jumbled and incoherent._

 

_Then blood spills. Impossibly red._

 

++

 

“To another success,” Ditrik bumps his forehead on mine as the last man falls. “Give me a reward.” He leans in and kisses me. This is surprising. He always gave special care to make sure no one sees us, but recently he has become bold with his affections.

“You kissed me,” my face is hot.

He laughs, “I did. Do you want another one?”

I look around, “here?”

“Everyone is too busy rounding up survivors and recovering resources. I bet we can even take this behind a tree and no one would notice.” He pushes the hair from my face.

I know he’s joking, so I retort, “but you’re so loud when we do it, someone is bound to notice.” This makes Ditrik red in return and I try to remember it as best as I can—it’s a rare sight.  

“What time do you think we’ll get back to camp,” he asks instead.

I shrug. “Past midnight, perhaps.”

He picks at my robe, dusting off sand and dirt. “Look at us, we’re filthy.”

I peer at him, he might have some splatters of blood on his armor and maybe some sand in his boots, “what’s with you today?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grins, then he leans in. “Let’s take a bath when we get back.”

I only nod, because I understand what he means.

 

Ditrik’s back is covered in scars and press my fingers on the deep cut that travels from his shoulder blade and across to his rib. He groans, water sloshing around us, so I kiss the nape of his neck.

“What are you doing?” He arches his back, pushing against me. Ditrik collapses against the tub’s edge. “What are you doing? Move.” He demands and I do as he tells me. I pull his arms behind him and press deeper into him.

“Ditrik,” I mutter, putting my weight on him. “Ditrik, does it feel good?”

He only hums, glancing back. I spy the smile on his face and it appeases me.

"Turn around Ditrik," I say, "let me see your face." 

"Why— _ah_ —!" He mutters. "Don't take—!" He shudders when I turn him around, his face bright red. 

Ditrik smiles at me, a hand on his belly when I enter him. "Do I make you sing?"

I lick at my lips, leaning down to kiss him. "More than you think." 

 

Morning comes and Ditrik barely stirs in the cots. I run my fingers through his hair before dressing to do my rounds. I’ve been thinking about telling Ry’del, he should know—or rather, I want him to know. He would be awake right now, replying to letters or training the men and women in the barracks.

I go through the possible conversation in my mind, how to tell him and how to bring it up. I decide quickly I would rather just get to the point. He would understand and perhaps calm my fears.

Ry’del is in his tent, fastening the last of his under armor when I walk in.

“ _On dhea_ ,” Ry’del glances up, smiling. “ _Mar erathe son?_ ”

“Um,” I stutter over my words, trying not to remember my night with Ditrik. “It was better than most nights.”

Ry’del nods, “good. I was hoping Atven’s remedies were working.”

I prop myself up on the desk and settle down. “ _B_ _abae_ , can we talk?”

He raises his eyebrows, “yes? What’s wrong?”

My nerves sends shivers down my spine and my hands shake—feelings on my sleeves and I know my face shows it so well. “How did you know you loved Father?” The question sound strange and I almost regret asking it.

Ry’del has a faraway look on his face. “Not immediately, but unexpectedly.”

“Sounds right,” I mutter under my breath. “Was it scary?”

He sighs, “what is scarier than letting another person know you so intimately?” I say nothing so he continues. “There are many kinds of love,” Ry’del says. “There is familial love—a love that cares and tells you what you need to hear. Then there is the love of friends, largely unspoken but it's what keeps you together.”

“Of course, romantic love, where nothing makes sense but it feels right. It tightens your heart and it feels good.” He sighs wistfully.

“Is that the love you have with Father?” It’s almost silly to hear grown men speaking of love like maidens, but maidens do not have a monopoly on love.

“Yes,” he smiles. “Among all the good kinds of love.”

I clasp my hands together, my own thoughts surging—understanding. “What do you do when you love someone?”

He stares to the horizon, thinking deeply. “First, know your feelings are precious. No matter what the other says, what you feel is real. Don’t let rejection make you believe that you never loved them in the first place. Or that they hate you.”

“Then?”

“Then you make a choice.” He turns to me. “A choice that will flood your heart or drain it.”

I hug my knees to my chest, “it seems matters of the heart are always complicated.” My thoughts wander. “But it sounds beautiful.”

Ry’del reaches over to pat my shoulder, “It is, but like some beautiful things, love is not all good. There is also a scary love that can ravage and destroy you if you aren't careful.”

“Have you felt a love like that,” I ask carefully, he has many stories not meant for anyone but himself.

He nods, “and it took me a long time to learn how throw it away.” He sighs. “Why do you ask these things Marek? Are you in love?” It’s a bit teasing, a small smile on his face—but he’s gentle with me. “ _Ra ea mar falon, ame ar gonun_?”

My heart feels like it stopped, because I have never heard such a question out loud. I hide my face, embarrassment creeping up my face. It doesn't make sense but it feels right, so I say, “ _vin_.”

 

++

 

The sun is bright and warm against Dorian’s skin. He wakes up with a groan and Vinaeres is by his side, pressing a bundled cloth to his head.

“Magister Pavus, you were hit pretty badly. Don’t try to stand.” She says quietly.

Dorian looks around, eyes blinking from the light, “where are we?”

“An Inquisition camp,” she checks on his head wound. “In Kassel. That back-up plan of yours would be great right now.” They’re in a cage, like animals. At least his shoulder is bandaged.

Soldiers pass them, only sparing them glances before continuing on with their day.

“Excuse me!” Dorian calls out. “I demand to talk to someone!”

Vinaeres just simmers, glaring at everyone who passes by. “Is this the Inquisition you kept talking about?”

Dorian ignores her, waving over a soldier walking their way, “you there! Get your commander!” But again, he is ignored.

“The beggar mage demands for the commander?” A female soldier laughs, sitting cross-legged next to the cage.

“Magister Pavus is not a beggar mage.” Vinaeres spits.

“Ooh, yes, I’ve heard. You wouldn’t shut up about it when he was asleep.” The woman said. “You can keep shouting it if you want, but it’s a little hard to believe when no one has seen Dorian Pavus in years. You can’t expect the Inquisition to willy-nilly believe what a stranger with magic says.”

Dorian sighs, “is there someone we could talk to, it’s important.”

“You can talk to me,” the soldier props her head on her hand. “I’ll listen real intently.”

“I doubt that,” Vinaeres grumbles, “you look as sharp as a rock.”

Dorian waves his hand at Vinaeres. “You're not helping.” She rolls her eyes and turns away, walking to the other side of the cage. “Then listen carefully.” Dorian turns his attention back to the soldier. She nods, tilting her head and smiling widely.

“Ready when you are.”

“My name is Dorian Pavus, I was in the Siege of Minrathous and hid away in the High Reaches for years before we could—”

The soldier starts groaning, “spare me the exposition.”

“I thought you said you’d listen intently.” Dorian smiles. She reminds him of Sera, just a little bit.

“Yeah, if the story was actually interesting.” She presses her face against the bars of the cage.

“Then _you_ tell me about yourself.” Dorian suggests.

The soldier sneers, “why should I?”

Dorian shrugs, “you don’t want to listen to my _boring_ story, then why don’t you share yours.”

“Mine isn’t any better.”

“Try me,” Dorian says.

She nods, “alright.” Stretching her legs. “I use to be a part of a team—or I guess I still am? Not sure. _Anyway_ , I was sent here by the Inquisitor with a party and resources. Ever since, I’ve been stuck here in the dumps and haven’t heard—”

“The Inquisitor?” Dorian interrupts. Even Vinaeres perks up. “You were sent here by the Inquisitor. Inquisitor Lavellan?”

The soldier raises her eyebrows, “yes, who else.”

“So you’ve met him? The elf, right?” Dorian’s heart beats loudly in his chest. This is the first time in a long time he’s heard of his _Amatus_.

“Nope.” She says. “The Inquisitor wouldn’t waste his time telling me any of that personally. The order was relayed to me.”

Dorian has to be sure, “you _swear_ it’s Inquisitor Ry’del Lavellan?” The name is sweet on his tongue.

“Yes, I’m sure,” the soldier frowns, “we were in the same camp. I mean, I never saw him, but his son is there. Quite interesting too.”

“Son?” Dorian doesn’t let himself think too much.

“This little mage boy. Speaks elvish all the time with the Dalish volunteers.”

Dorian’s stomach turns. He burns to ask questions but he’s scared of the answers. “Marek Pavus?”

“Something like that,” she smiles. “You’re very knowledgeable about the Inquisitor’s inner circle.”

“Because he _is_ Dorian Pavus.” Vinaeres says, edging closer towards the two.

The soldier sucks air between her teeth, “yes, or you’re really bad spies.” She smiles. “Either way, I don’t really care that much, because all they really have me doing is watching your cage.”

“Then,” Dorian feels his breathing shallow. “Then send a letter for me. To where the Inquisitor is. I don’t even need to know where you’re sending it to and you can read the message yourself.”

The soldier makes a face.

“ _Please_.”

“Like I said,” she smirks. “All they have me doing is watching your cage.”

With that, the soldier stands and dusts herself off, walking away.

 

++

 

A week later, Dorian finds a quill, inkwell, and parchment by his side when he wakes.

 

++

 

“What a sappy letter,” the soldier laughs, folding it carefully.  

“I agree.” Vinaeres says dryly and Dorian frowns at them both.

“When did you two get so close?”

Vinaeres smiles, one that Dorian hasn’t seen on her face for a long time. “You’re asleep a lot.”

“I’ll send a rider. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. The mountains have been overrun by the Mien’Harel and—”

A bell starts ringing in the distance and soldiers starts to scramble. The soldier looks around, a hand on her ax.

“What’s happening?” Vinaeres tiptoes to see what’s happening in front of the camp.

“I don’t know.” The soldier says and nods at Dorian before running to the front with the others.

“What is is?” Vinaeres repeats, and Dorian puts his hand up.

Silence fill the camp, then, in a split second the shouting comes. Fires break out in the distance and the clashing of swords fill the air.

Dorian turns to Vinaeres, “we have to get out of here.”

“You think?” She breathes, gathering her mana. It fizzles out quickly.

“That won’t work,” Dorian looks at the lock. “I’m sure the cage is enchanted.” He pushes against the bars, but it’s no use.

“There,” Vinaeres points to the hinges, “what if we lift?”

Dorian nods and puts his arm through the bars. Vinaeres stands opposite of him and does the same. “On three.”

The push the bar doors up and doesn’t budge. A second try, still nothing. By the third, they knew it was impossible.

Dorian pulls Vinaeres to face him. “Listen carefully,” he holds her face in his hands. “If the camp falls, do not say anything about who you are.”

Vinaeres nods, “same to you.”

They sit on the ground, waiting for the rush in the camp.

 

++

 

It doesn’t take long for the camp to get overrun. The fighting is brought inside and Dorian knows the Inquisition soldiers were outnumbered. An Inquisition soldier rushes past the cage and Dorian grabs him. “Get us out,” Dorian demands. “We can fight. We can help!”

The man shoves him away and continues forward.

Soon, the camp is burning and he turns to Vinaeres, silently apologizing to her father and mother. Apologizing to the whole Rosenhain family and Dorian knows he has their blood on his hands.

But fortune smiles upon them, as the soldier they’ve made friends with quickly comes to them. Their staves are in her arms and throws them through the bars.

“I’m going to let you go.” She swings her ax down on the hinges and it pops right out. “I believe you are who you say you are. And if you’re not, the Maker will strike me down.”

 

"Go to Andoral’s Reach, southwest of here. Go around the mountain path but avoid Weisshaupt.” The soldier smiles at them. “And Magister Pavus, when you get to Andoral’s Reach, find Annalise and tell her I’ll see her later.”

“We can stay and fight.” Dorian says, picking up his staff and handing Vinaeres hers. 

Her smile widens, a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "If you  _are_ Dorian Pavus, I'm not giving the Mien'Harel a chance to get to you."

“Come with us.” Vinaeres grabs her arms.

"No can do, Vinaeres," She grins, sprinting away as she swings her ax towards a Mien'Harel soldier.

 

++

 

The towers of Andoral’s Reach shimmer in the distance and Dorian pushes the horse to go faster. Vinaeres slumps in front of him, lips dry and feverish. “Vinaeres, we’re almost there,” he assures her, even if she cannot hear him. Even he feels his strength draining, if they don’t reach the gates, Dorian knows they're as good as dead. “We’re almost there, hang on.” He says, mostly to himself. “Please.”

 

++

 

The soldiers are noisier than usual that their sounds carry all the way to the tower.

“Quiet them for me, Ditrik,” I mumble, wrapping my arms around his waist to press my face into his stomach. I had been sleeping, tried from this morning’s training. Ditrik plays with my hair a little, and I hear him turn a page in his book.  

“I wonder what would happen if Gisharel and Gentivi met,” he wonders out loud.

“They would fight or have an intelligent conversation.” I says, letting sleep take me. “Wake me up when they serve lunch.”

“Shall I feed it to you too?” He jokes.

 

It doesn’t feel like I’ve slept at all when Ditrik rouses me awake. “Marek, wake up.” He sounds hurried. “Y—your father.”  

I hug Ditrik tighter, “ _Babae, sul’ema em atish._ ” I groan, then—

“Magister Pavus,” Ditrik says pulling me up, I almost scold him for the bad joke but then I see Father, and I start to panic. I think hard if this is a dream—would demons be so cruel?

“Wait,” I back away from them, trying to grasp my reality. I fall to my knees and clutch my head, “it’s just a dream.” I tell myself again and again.

“Marek,” the demon calls me and I turn away from it.

I sob into my arms, “wake up. Wake up.” I mutter over and over, trying to calm myself.

“Magister Pavus, stop.” I hear Ditrik say.

Then he’s in front of me, “Marek, you’re awake.” He says this calmly, kissing my cheek. “You’re awake.”

“I’m sorry. I’m—my nightmares, they’re—” I’m incoherent and Ditrik shakes his head.

He places a kiss on my lips, “not a nightmare, Marek.” He says gently, “a miracle. Your father is alive.”

When I calm, I slowly turn around and see my Father’s face. He has his hands over his mouth, stifling a cry and I run to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!! TRANSLATIONS !!!!!  
>  X “On dhea, (good morning)” Ry’del glances up, smiling. “Mar erathe son (did you sleep well)?”  
> X It’s a bit teasing, a small smile on his face—but he’s gentle with me. “Ra ea mar falon, ame ar gonun (it's your friend, am I right)?”  
> X "vin (yes)."  
> X "Babae, sul’ema em atish (Father, give me peace)."
> 
> XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
> 
> HELLO y'all.  
> Ugh. I know it's been so long, but Chapter 17 killed me and I had to do a lot of editing. PLUS, I was hit with a big writer's...not block... but writer's procrastination??? Well, here are my notes!
> 
> \+ I'm so sorry for that long ass notice in the beginning. Sorry!  
> \+ We finally get a deeper look into Dorian's side of the story. Dorian and Vinaeres is strange. I really wanted to get into more of that especially because their relationship started out as mentor/mentee with Dorian teaching Vinaeres Necromancy. However, with Vinaeres' father back in Tallo, Dorian isn't sure if he is suppose to be like her father or not. He knows he can't but at the same time, he doesn't know Alphonse's fate. Vinaeres on the other hand, really sees Dorian more as an important person she needs to protect and also a mentor rather than a parent substitute. And I think this creates the tension between them.  
> +The demons that whisper in Dorian's ear is a Despair demon (supposedly) that just comes and goes. He can control it, however, but there are moments.  
> \+ Marek and Ditrik's non-explicit scene. Lol. I wanted to show a love that is very new and Marek doesn't know what to do and is probably insecure that Ditrik knows more about romantic love. Also, confirmed that Marek is a top? But a curious one. I'll leave it at that.  
> \+ The soldier in Kassel is someone mentioned in Chapter 17.  
> \+ I thought that Marek will see Dorian and be immediately happy but I thought hard about it and with his demon dreams and accepting that Dorian is dead, I thought he'd freak out. Also, he was taking a nap, so he couldn't be sure.  
> \+ I love you all and thank you for being so patient with me!  
> \+ I did write an AU about this set of characters when I was trying to dislodge my laziness! If you're interested, I might upload it to my tumblr or something but not here.  
> \+ I predict like 6 chapters left (ha!)


	19. Love, a Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited at last, but not all news is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. We've got Chapter 20 and then Chapter 21 is split into three parts and then an epilogue left. So I'm calling it, we end at chapter 24. Wowwowow. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**|| Love, a Reunion**

**|| Nineteen.**

 

Inquisition soldiers do their duty well, Dorian thinks, watching them move about in the distance, trying to see who is galloping towards the reach. 

“Rider!” One shouts. 

“Rider approaches!” Another echoes. 

The gates open, Dorian and Vinaeres are escorted inside. The Captain raises a hand to his soldiers and they point arrows, spears, and swords at Dorian.

“Throw your staves to the side before you get off your horse.” The Captain orders and Dorian does as he is told—his feet feel heavy and he there is a tiredness on his back. 

“The girl,” Dorian pulls Vinaeres off the horse and slings her arm over his shoulders. “She needs care.”

Thank the Maker for common decency, because the Captain only nodded, ordering one of the soldiers to take her from Dorian. He immediately starts splashing her face with water and tried having her drink. Vinaeres only groans, eyes fluttering and a painful frown on her face.

“Call the for the Healer.” The Captain orders keeping his eyes on Dorian. Someone pats him down, looking for anything that could be used for a weapon. 

“He’s clear, ser.” 

The Captain gives Dorian a stony look. Dorian thinks how he is young, but an eagerness is obvious on his skin. “Pera, give the man your flask. You must be thirsty, stranger.” The Captain says, the suspicion still in his eyes. “Who are you, and what brings you to the gates of the Inquisition?”

Dorian could barely hear what the man was saying, emptying the flask of its contents and basking in the cool drink going down his throat. He chokes on it and wipes at his mouth, surely smearing dust and dirt around his face. “We came from Kassel, the Inquisition camp there was overrun and we escaped.” 

Anger and worry flashed on his face before it returned to its unreadable stony self. “That doesn’t answer my question, who are y—”  

“Who needs my attention so eagerly?” An elf ambles towards the group, carrying more water and other supplies. 

“The girl, ser.” The Captain calls, gesturing towards Vinaeres. When the elf gets closer, Dorian almost cries—it can’t be, could it? He thinks. 

But the elf gives no notice of Dorian and checks on Vinaeres. “She’s feverish—and dehydrated.” He looks behind him and waves someone over. “Brigand, come and carry the girl to the healer’s tent.” 

Dorian’s stomach feels like flipping, and the elf turns to him, “I’ll get her back on her feet in no…” his words trail and Dorian finds himself confirming his thoughts. “...time.”

“Atven,” Dorian can’t help it and tears fall from his eyes as he takes Atven’s face in his. “It’s really you, isn’t it?” 

Atven, whose eyes are red, pulls Dorian’s head down. And Dorian cries on his shoulder, gripping Atven’s robes like a child. “Welcome back to the living, brother.” 

Dorian thinks he hears Atven’s voice break. 

 

++

 

Dorian keeps his eyes on Atven, scared that if he looks away, he’d disappear like a mirage. It’s strange, Atven and Ry’del don’t look anything alike, but Dorian sees a bit of Ry’del’s mannerisms in him. And when the three brothers are put side by side, it’s easy to see the resemblances. He remembers the first time they met. Atven, compared to his twin, Athel, was always more abrasive and kept his distance. They didn’t get along at first and Dorian barely tried to have a semblance of a relationship. It took awhile, but they found common interests— mainly trying new medicines and creating more potent potions. From there, they became good friends, sharing recipes and creating together. Dorian smiles at the memory—half of the potions Dorian taught Marek had been from Atven’s collection. 

“Vinaeres is in the healer’s tent cooling down.” Atven interrupts his thoughts. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Yes,” Dorian answers, voice timid. He thinks how Atven seems different—more mature and level-headed. “I have questions but I’m scared to ask them.” He admits.

The elf smiles, “your  _ Amatus _ is in Perendale. He’ll back in the morning.” 

“Has he...Did Ry’del…” Dorian starts and stops, trying to think of a better way to word things. He isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

“Don’t think of those things now,” Atven shakes his head, “you’ll only torture yourself.” 

But another question sits on his tongue, so eager to come out but terrifying to say. “And what of Marek?” 

Atven’s smile wavers for a moment, “he’s here. In the towers.” Dorian almost stands but Atven puts a hand on his shoulder. “You should know it took Marek a long time to understand everything. He has night terrors—not the kind that can be solved with a cleansing spell. I want you to know that he barely sleeps, keeps himself awake at night if he can. And he’s trying to deal with it in the battlefield. I  _ think  _ he would get better when sees you. But there is a chance it would get worse.”

“I—then what should I do?” Dorian is feeling queasy, wanting to see his boy now. 

“Take it slow.” Atven escorts Dorian out of the tent, pointing to a tower in the north. “And don’t blame yourself for his condition."

 

++

 

There are two voices chatting quietly as Dorian approaches the tower room. He doesn’t recognize it but continues forward. 

It’s now or never. Dorian wants to see his son, to hug him and kiss him. But he stops for a moment, gathering his thoughts and his courage. Dorian had left a boy of thirteen in Minrathous. Six years have passed and many things can change in six years. Many things can manifest in six years. Many—!

“Is someone there?” A voice calls out, it’s quiet and light. Dorian thinks his heart would stop and he continues up the stairs. A young man sits in the corner with another sleeping on his lap. 

The color of ash and wood. It’s undeniable. 

“Hello, may I help you?” 

Then Dorian knows immediately—that sweet, charismatic smile. It reminds him of Alphonse. Vinaeres would be so pleased. His heart swells and wonders why the Maker is being too kind. “Ditrik Rosenhain, isn’t it?”  

The young man nods, curious. Even more curious, Dorian thinks, how the Rosenhain boy unconsciously tangles his fingers through Marek’s hair. When the boy sees Dorian looking, he draws his hand away. 

“Do I look  _ that  _ different?” Dorian jokes through tears. 

It seems enough.

“Marek, wake up.” Ditrik’s eyes are wide. “Y—your father.”  

Marek stirs, “ _ Babae, sul’ema em atish. _ ” Dorian recognizes it, how much love has grown between his  _ Amatus  _ and his son? He has much to learn.

“Magister Pavus,” Ditrik says pulling Marek up, his eyes would not leave Dorian’s.

Then, their eyes fall on each other. They stare for what seems like years. Dorian falls into the familiarity of Marek’s green eyes—his face no longer has traces of the child he lost in Minrathous. Instead, Marek's face is stronger—truly Ferelden. And he's taller too, built like a soldier but with an innocence thriving behind his eyes. 

“Wait,” Marek backs away from Dorian, falling to his knees and clutching at his head, “it’s just a dream.”

What heartache, Dorian sobs. “Marek,” he calls, but Marek turns away.

“Wake up. Wake up.” He mutters over and over. Dorian moves forward, to touch him, but Ditrik shakes his head.

“Magister Pavus, stop.” He says. It’s not admonishing, but it hurts all the same. Ditrik is gentle with him, with his small touches and quiet reassurances. When he kisses Marek, Dorian accepts he doesn't know  _ this  _ Marek anymore. 

Marek calms down and slowly turns to face Dorian. Their eyes meet again and then, the son runs to his father.

 

++

 

No one could be so cruel. To force a joke so hateful and heartbreaking. Right?

Cautiously, I reach out my hand to the man with the thick beard and long hair. He stares. Those moonlit eyes are familiar, clawing at memories and a love tucked away in the deepest recesses of my mind. I run my fingers across his face, trying to feel for familiarity in a body that seems distant—a stranger. 

He takes my hand, squeezing it. “ _ Domi ego sum _ .” He says, kissing the palm of my hand again and again, until it’s wet with tears. 

“Father,” I say, the word taste sweet—like figs and honey.  

Father smiles.  _ Father  _ smiles at me. “Yes,” he lets out a short laugh, “yes. It’s me.” 

“I’ll,” Ditrik starts, “I’ll let you have your privacy. I’ll talk to you in a moment, Marek.” He has his hands respectfully clasped in front of him, eyes looking away from us. The timid Ditrik of the past has come back, I think, and I reach out to touch him.

But Father surprises us both—stepping in front of Ditrik to hug him. He doesn’t let go when he speaks, “there are many things you need to know. But right now, the most important thing is, Vinaeres is with Atven at the moment.” 

Ditrik looks bewildered and even I gasp at the news. He looks at me, eyes wide, almost unsure of what to do. “Go to her, Ditrik. She has much to tell you.” 

“I—yes. Thank you, Magister Pavus.” Ditrik doesn’t leave immediately. He stands there, in shock. Then, he walks over to me, hands gripping my shoulders. He gives a huff of a laugh with an incredulous smile. “We’ll speak later.” He says, absent-mindedly, before leaving me alone with Father. 

“It’s really you,” I ask, still unable to shake my doubts. “I feel like I’m dreaming.” 

Father sits down and pats the space next to him. “It’s really me.” I sit, farther away than I intended. He says nothing about it, but I know he feels just as strange as I do. We sit in silence. I used to think I would have so much to say to Father if he ever returned, but now that he’s in front of me, I can’t get myself to say anything else. His face is the same, older, but the same. The beard and hair are unkempt for the moment, but I know underneath it all, is still the Father I knew in Minrathous. Once he groomed himself, I knew he would start resembling his old self again. Perhaps this is the reason I could not believe my eyes. There is a quietness in him—one that rides his shoulders like a burden and I know it will stay there forever. A permanent fixture.

We speak at the same time.

Father smiles, and  _ this  _ is the same. A smile that hides intrigue and amusement. Can I truly let myself have this? And be satisfied I have been given such a gift? 

“You start first.” I say, not trusting myself to speak anyway. 

He pats my cheek. “Look at you,” his eyes wander all around my face. It’s embarrassing. “You’ve grown. All those years, I’ve keep imagining you as little Marek. But look at you!” 

“I’m the same,” I keep my hands together, looking elsewhere but at him. 

Father shakes his head, “no, I see the difference. The Inquisitor’s influence is obvious in you.” He’s smiling when he says this. My heart beats. 

“ _ Baba— _ um, Ry’del is in Perendale,” I start. I know why I hesitate, and it makes me sick. Father would be glad to know that Ry’del and I are seen as father and son. Yet, I hesitate because I don’t want Father to think I have replaced him. 

“I know.” Father says, staring with a wistful look. “That old elf and I will talk when he comes. But now, I’m still happily looking at how much you’ve grown.”

I nod. “He’ll be so happy to see you.”

The air around us is awkward. To think we were crying moments ago. And with the tension of that having dissipated, a small fear buries itself in my heart—because nothing comes to mind on what to talk about. I could talk about everything that has happened to me since Minrathous. But what purpose would that serve? Father will just know that I have become a soldier—something he has been saying and has been preparing me for. 

Asking him about what happened to him since Minrathous would do no good either. I can see he’s not ready to tell me—otherwise he already would have. I’ll listen when he’s ready and I know he’ll listen when I'm ready. 

But the silence that fills between us is scary. 

Of course, Father is so good at reading people, because he shifts himself to a more comfortable position. “Tell me” he leans in with a mock suspicion on his face, “he hasn’t found someone else, has he? I don’t want to be surprised if he suddenly tells me he’s married.”

And at this, I laugh. Out of nowhere, I laugh loud. Maybe it has something to do with my uncertainties or because I’m nervous, but I laugh. “Don’t worry, Father.” I say, smiling to assure worries that were never there. “ _Babae_ would never do that. His heart, it sings for you. _Is ju’ea ir sha—_ I mean. He will be so happy.” I let it slip, so I blush. 

“I’ve heard you’re proficient in Elvish.” Father says. “It suits you.” 

I think hard before reaching out to take Father’s hand. This is my new reality. A resolve finds me and I know Father sees it too as a sadness etches itself in his eyes. I will fight harder than ever to never lose anyone again.

 

++

 

The boy spoke of many things before falling into a deep sleep. He told Dorian of his training, how he chose to be a Knight-Enchanter, how he and Ry’del go hunting from time to time. The boy spoke of the war—the fights he has won, the fights he has lost. He speaks of Ditrik, humbly, quietly, but with a passion so similar. 

There are many more things to learn, and many more to create, but the night takes Marek and Dorian hopes that the Maker would be kind enough to keep the demons away from him tonight. 

Ditrik tells Dorian to stay with Marek and he’ll spend the night in the healer’s tent with Vinaeres. But before he leaves, Dorian calls him to sit and talk. The Rosenhain boy looks nervous, but he’s always been like this in front of Dorian. “Has Vinaeres woken up,” Dorian asks gently.

“Yes,” he answers, only glancing up to meet Dorian’s eyes. “We talked and I want to thank you, Magister Pavus.” 

“No,” Dorian sighs, putting his hands in his face. “I’m sorry. About your mother, your father, Nikal...they didn’t have to protect me—and yet…” 

Ditrik shakes his head, “no, it is a choice they would make again. My parents are warriors and understand the perils of war.” 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry.” Dorian pats Ditrik’s arm. “I owe your family my life.” 

“Then take care to live long, Magister Pavus.” Ditrik says, smiling. “Pardon me, I’ll go see to Vinaeres now.” 

Dorian nods, “one more thing, before you go.” 

Ditrik stops at the entrance of the tent, waiting patiently, nerves on his skin. “Yes?” 

“Do you love him? Truly?” It’s not fair to ask, but Marek is still his son. And Dorian knows, how loneliness can make companionship look more appealing than it really is. 

This time, the boy doesn’t hesitate. He looks straight at Dorian, unmoving, “yes. With everything I have. Yes.”

 

Morning comes sooner, Dorian sleeps little, scared to wake up back in a burning Minrathous. Marek jolts from his sleep, taking deep breaths as he reaches for water by the side of his cot. 

“Are you okay?” Dorian walks over, wiping the sweat from Marek’s forehead. 

He squeezes Dorian’s arm. “It’s really real.” He sighs, sitting up. “I'm fine. Just...I'm fine." 

_Night terrors_. Dorian tries to see if he can feel the presence of demons or spirits, but nothing comes. 

" _Babae_ will be here soon.” Marek says, yawning. He'll leave the talk of nightmares for another time. 

“I’m nervous.” Dorian admits and then the horns blare. 

Marek jumps off his cot, “he’s here.” Before Dorian could say anything else, Marek was out of the tent, briskly walking towards the gates. 

Dorian watches him with fondness, almost giddy that Marek has gotten so close with his  _ Amatus _ . Marek speaks excitedly in Elvish and Ry’del looks stunned, but he embraces Marek before looking around the camp. 

When Ry'del's eyes meet Dorian's, life floods like water. They meet in the middle, eyes focused on each other and nothing else. 

“You’re as handsome as ever,” Ry’del grins, eyes red. 

“You’re as beautiful as ever.” Dorian says, letting tears fall. He’ll cry more today, he knows. He doesn’t care. It’s his  _ Amatus  _ that kisses him first. It’s chase and lovely, as if they’ve never been apart. 

Ry’del wipes Dorian’s tears away, kissing his face all over. “You took your time.”

 

++

 

Father and Ry’del stand there in each other’s arms. Kissing and speaking quietly—many things are said between them, but no one will know. No one will have that privilege. And I will protect it. I watch them with happiness in my heart, understanding more than ever how love can look like—and it’s naive for me to think I have the same thing with Ditrik. They disappear together, and it’s privacy they deserve. 

I meet with Ditrik, who still sits at Vinaeres’ side in Atven’s tent. Vinaeres looks the same—beautiful like her mother. I remember the days we competed with each other. Seeing who could cast faster, or fight better. She’s always bested me sparring. I wonder how much better she is now—truly trained by Father and forced to fight the war sooner than any of us. “How is she?” I sit next to Ditrik and he takes my hand. 

“Just fine,” he says. “She woke up for a little bit and we talked. But, she’s been asleep ever since.” 

“And how are you?” I feel the trembling of his hand. 

He sighs deeply, “Mother died during the siege. Nikal was hit with a poisoned arrow during a skirmish and—” his voice cracks, putting his face in his hands. He takes a deep breath. “And we don’t know what happened to father.” 

Nothing I say will help his grieving, so I say nothing but let him know I’m there. I close the little gap between us and he cries quietly. 

 

++

 

“I thought I lost you forever.” Ry’del sighs—hands clasped and they don’t let go of each other at all. Dorian brushes strands of Ry’del’s hair away from his face. He looks carefully, checking if Ry’del has new scars on his face. He's not ashamed to admit he knows them all. 

“Thank you for taking care of Marek.” Dorian kisses the scars on his cheek. “I’m sorry for leaving you.” 

Ry’del smiles, radiant—brilliant while his eyes burn like the sun. “Tell me I did okay.” The smile is gone, voice quivering. “Tell me I did okay with waiting.” 

“ _ Amatus _ ,” Dorian holds him tightly, heart bursting like ripened fruit in the sun. 

 

When their tears are dry and their hearts beat together, Ry’del speaks first. “This is scary,” his voice is tired—quiet, eyes puffy.

“What is?” Dorian whispers, pressing his lips on Ry’del’s temple. 

“We both know, how much is at stake with this war.” Ry’del takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, calmly. 

Dorian frowns, “yes. Everything. The whole of Thedas and its existence.” He can feel Ry’del’s intensity—as if he is about to enter a battle. 

“People look to me for protection, for hope.” He continues and Dorian nods. “And what I’m feeling right now makes me scared.” 

“ _ Amatus _ , tell me.” Dorian searches his eyes. Ry’del is easy to read, but not today. 

He looks conflicted, angry at himself and Dorian can’t bear it. “If something happened to you, I would let the whole word burn.” This sends shivers down Dorian’s spine.

“That’s not true,” Dorian says immediately, taking Ry’del’s face in his hands. “You are too kind and—!”

“A man who cannot bear such loss again.” 

Dorian kisses him, “no. You can’t do that, because you’ll promise me that right now. You will continue on and you will build a world where love isn’t lost to senseless wars.” He kisses Ry’del again. “Promise me this, say it.” 

His heart tightens, listening to Ry’del’s silence, but then, “I promise.”

 

++

 

Feasts and celebrations are cut short when Dorian calls Ry’del to the war room, with news that brings a hope for an end to the war.

“I need the Inquisitor,” Dorian says to his  _ Amatus _ . “I need the leader and the soldier right now.” 

And with this Ry’del knows it’s important. 

“When Minrathous was attacked, the explosion was caused by something similar to the anchor. It was smaller, but definitely of the same make.” Dorian thinks of Ditrik and Marek. They were too young to have experienced the explosion, but everyone knows of the anchor that healed the wound in the sky.

“Then it’s definitely Solas.” Ry’del says. Something aches in both of them. How sad it is for a friendship turn so awful. 

“Yes, it’s Solas. I’m sure.” Dorian places figures on the war map and draws X’s. “From what you tell me, these are the largest concentrations of Mien’Harel forces, correct?” 

Ry’del exhales the breath he was holding, eyes on the map. “Yes.Those places have little of value and we control the choke points. I don’t see—”

Dorian continues making X’s on the map. “And these are where little pockets of Mien’Harel forces are.”  

“I don’t understand, Dorian. The Mien’Harel are cultist—believing they’re fighting for a god.”  

“And yet, they are well stocked and funded!” Dorian exclaims. "Look at the map carefully. Mien'Harel in Perendale? Some found in Val Royeaux?"

Ry’del shrugs, “so, you’re telling me the Mien’Harel are—”  

“Pawns,” Dorian finishes for him. “Sent by Solas himself to weaken Inquisition troops and to distract us.”

“Distract...us?” The air in the room changes, it’s thick with dread. “From what, Dorian?” 

Dorian always hated giving bad news, and this is so much worse. “Solas has eluvians, Ry’del.”

Ry’del turns to the map again and Dorian sees the color drain from his face. “We’re going to be slaughtered.” 

“There is more news.” Dorian swallows. “Solas has taken refuge in Minrathous.” Even without saying it, Dorian knows what the plan will be. The war will be ending, with Thedas burning or with Solas’ death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly dreading writing the last bits of this fic. I mean, I got a ton of plans. So...sigh.   
> Alright, let's talk!  
> \+ I really like the idea of Atven meeting Dorian first before anyone else. I also just wanted to write a scene with them together. In Chronicles of a Trevelyan (lol), in a chapter I haven't posted yet, Atven and Athel are twins and Atven is kind of critical of a lot of things but probably is closer to Ry'del than Athel is. Oh, did I already mention that Ry'del has three siblings? The twins and an older sister. Athel is also alive somewhere, I don't mention him because he's probably with the sister.  
> \+ I don't know if you guys like how Dorian and Marek's "catching up" scene was. I was thinking about it a lot. And wondering if it should be all very sappy and lots of crying and sharing out. But that's exposition for the character I didn't want to write (since we all know about it).   
> \+ Then, I thought about my own experience with my own dad. I lived away from my father for a long while because he worked abroad. When I saw him again after about six years (ha, it coincides but I didn't mean this), I was super excited initially, but then I realized little by little that he knows very little about me now and I know little of him.   
> \+ I thought Dorian and Marek's exchange is a little awkward and a little detached, but I think that's really how it is. Even if you love the person, it's hard to argue that 6 years is not a long time to change. Dorian doesn't know the current Marek and Marek doesn't know the current Dorian. But to each other, they approached this reunion with the thought that, oh maybe nothing changed, only realizing that, yes, there are changes and now you have to learn that.   
> \+ NOW, as for Ry'del and Dorian, they kind of operate on a different level. They both understand that essentially they're both soldiers. They know what happens in war. They know the risk and they let themselves feel sad about deaths, but ultimately it is a part of their lifestyle. But Ry'del seems to turn away from that, because it might have been okay then. It was just the two of them, but now, Marek is a part of their lives too.   
> \+ I also wanted to keep their reunion light and happier. I think it's a great contrast between someone who is more willing to accept death (Ry'del) and someone who isn't so willing (Marek).   
> \+ Ditrik finding out about his family was sad to me. Marek chooses not to say anything because what is there to say? Marek just got back his Father and Ditrik who was pretty que sera about the whole thing got confirmation that his whole family is basically dead. We don't get to see Ditrik's thought process, but I'm sure he was holding on more to the hope that his family is alive than dead. Getting confirmation breaks him a little bit, but a part of him has accepted this.   
> \+ What does Dorian know? Eluvians. Solas has eluvians. Do you know what this means? We're truly nearing the end.   
> \+ Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed and I am so happy for the love. It really keeps me going and I'm so happy that people enjoy this which makes it a joy writing it as well!


	20. Man, a Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true war is here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> I really meant to publish this a lot sooner...but in all honesty, I was sooooo busy. First, I am actually flying away for a month for vacation and so I had been working myself raged to make sure I have enough money for that--haha! My flight is actually today (March 19) in the afternoon. This really was down to the wire! 
> 
> So, I haven't had the time I used to be able to dedicate. I wish I did though!
> 
> Please enjoy Chapter 20. We're basically at the end!
> 
> PS: I did not have enough time to edit this more thoroughly than the first time I edited, so forgive my mistakes. I'll fix when I can!

**|| Man, a Warrior**

**|| Twenty.**

 

“The air is cold,” Marek takes a deep breath, looking up to the stars. Dorian does the same, and feels the same chill. The night is impossibly serene, almost abnormal. Faint voices from the camp drifts with the breeze and Dorian thinks he likes this feeling.

“In the morning, you’ll be heading for the Free Marches.” Dorian can’t bear to look at his son, but it must be done. 

Marek nods, “yes.” 

“How do you feel about returning?” Dorian watches his son try and hide his thoughts—he’s better at it, but the twitch on Marek’s lip and he slight raise of his brow tells Dorian all. 

“I barely remember it,” he sighs. “Besides, Tevinter is home. The Marches mean nothing.” 

Dorian cannot fathom how different his son is. How much Marek has grown, how much Dorian has missed, and more importantly—how much Dorian doesn’t know. He admits to himself that he knows so little and is lost on how to learn everything again. It’s been months since Dorian’s return, yet, they’re relationship is no longer the same. 

“Do you think of your biological father, ever?” It’s a question he’s always wanted to ask. Dorian thinks he knows the answer—but fears it would be completely unexpected. 

Marek shrugs, “there’s no point, is there?” He takes another deep breath in. “He is nothing to me.”

Silence dig between them, settling with a heavy drop. It’s uncomfortable, and Dorian feels like running away. 

Then— 

“Father,” Marek looks at him, shoulders squared. Dorian thinks of how much he looks like a soldier built for war, rather than his son. He knows this is partly his doing and feels guilt building in the pit of his stomach. “Promise me you’ll greet me with open arms when I return from the Marches” 

It’s clear what he is saying— _ don’t die _ . 

Dorian smiles sadly, “if you promise me you’ll return.” 

 

**++**

 

Ravens don't fly in this war as Fen'Harel watches the skies. And like the wolf that he is, he kills ravens and messengers, leaving a spray of blood and gore across the sky. I know I will not be able to talk to my parents, but I am sure news of our progress will reach them and they can be rest assured that I am alright. 

The next day, I ride for Starkhaven. I say my goodbyes to Father and  _ babae _ , they remind me of this and that—how to carry myself, what to say. Never forget, they had said in our privacy, that I am of them and more. 

I exit the camp, nerves on fire, but Ditrik rides by my side, small smiles on his lips.  _ Babae  _ ordered him with me—”I know the feeling of separation,” he had said then and I am grateful for it. Vinaeres, Annalise, and Brigand would be following a day after us, knowing that we work well as a team. 

“Look at you, all bright and golden in that pretty armor of yours.” Ditrik puts his arm around my neck, jerking my horse towards his. “You look handsome.” It’s a whisper, but enough to make my face feel hot. 

I shrug him off, “look who’s talking,” I say under my breath, but I know he hears it. I want him to. 

My small entourage finally arrives and they greet me like a captain and I tell them not to. I have not earned such an honor. Another check for supplies and we are off. We gallop out into the heat and sand, the last of my conversations with Father and  _ babae  _ lingering in my mind. I know why they’re sending me away. It’s safer in the Free Marches, but I know at some point, we’d have to push for Nevarra and eventually Tevinter. Whatever their plan is, I’ll do what I can. It was time, I had thought, to wipe my tears and take this opportunity by the throat. If they want a victory in the east, they will have it and more.

 

**++**

 

“Have you heard anything yet?” Dorian paces around the tent, wringing his fingers. “It’s been two months.” 

Ry’del quietly slips on his boots, lacing it proficiently with one hand. “You need to calm down. It’s not exactly easy to get messages across Thedas right now.” He looks up, something smug on his face. “ _ You  _ would know.” 

“I—!” Dorian opens his mouth, wondering if his  _ Amatus  _ is really in the mood to make quips like that. “ _ Vashante Kaffas!  _ Please let me worry.” 

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t worry.” Ry’del starts putting on his undershirt, buttoning the left sleeve. “But you’ll just run yourself ragged worrying when there isn’t a reason why. If you were going to be like this, I don’t know why you insisted on sending him away. You haven’t seen him fight, my love. He’d be a great asset on the field.” 

Dorian shakes his head, picking up the underarmor to fasten it on Ry’del’s person. “I’m not sending him to fight in that mess. He’s not  _ just _ a soldier in your army” It’s too late when Dorian realizes what he just implied. “I did not mean—.”

“No, you did not,” Ry’del smiles, “I understand. I’ve made a promise to him, a long time ago in Perendale that he would never be alone in the battlefield—but realistically, I know I would not be able to protect him forever.” 

“Should I have let him stay?” Dorian says suddenly, thinking hard about his choices and how he would not forgive himself is something worse happened in the Free Marches. 

“I don’t know,” his  _ Amatus  _ answers, sitting on the cot. “But it is a decision I support. Once Solas activates the eluvians…” he trails off, a far away look in his eyes. 

But Ry’del doesn’t need to say it. No one does. Dorian glances at the war map again. The day Solas decides to use the eluvians, the whole of Orlais will fall. 

 

**++**

 

Days go by, letters don’t come but Dorian’s mind is occupied with the war. It feels endless, fighting in battle after battle. Yet, it feels like Solas’ army grows more every day. 

Now, they find themselves in the Fields of Ghislain, approaching Hunter Fell from the southwest. News travels that the Mien’Harel is looking to cut off half of the Inquisition’s forces after losing Hasmal in the Free Marches. The eluvian there is destroyed—or at least, that is what is being said rather than an official letter from Cullen.

The Inquisition, however, keeps their momentum—winning small battles and keeping Solas’ army at bay. 

Then, Nessum, Caimen Brea, and Trevis fall in quick succession. It came out of nowhere and put pressure to move from Andoral’s Reach to Ghislain.

The move isn’t easy and the Inquisition is greeted by Orlesian soldiers. There is a tension in the air and they look at the Inquisition with quiet trepidation—accusation, just a breath away. 

 

**++**

 

Ry’del crumples the letter, muttering something in his language as he tosses it aside. Josephine, who had made the risky travel to Ghislain takes a deep breath as she gingerly picks up the letter and smooths it against the table. Cassandra is here too, with her army forced to retreat from Nevarra as it slowly gets swallowed up. Hunter Fell, she had said, was already ablaze when they passed through it. 

“Look, Inquisitor. With all due respect, I think it’s unnecessary and extreme too, but you must understand Empress Celene’s position. Her power over the Orlesians is growing weak and it doesn’t help that her past with Briala has come out.” Josephine neatly puts the letter aside. 

“Ry’del, if you bend the knee, the Inquisition will be seen as a military state instead of a neutral party.” Dorian argues, a finger on the table. “It puts a target on our back—even Ferelden nobles will be looking our way. And it would a big distraction to what is important!”  

“Yet we are spread thin and need this alliance.” Ry’del sighs, reading over the letter as if he’s missed something.

Dorian feels irritated at the gesture, but he knows tensions are high right now and he needs to keep his calm. “Bloody idiots, the lot of them,” he scoffs, so much for keeping his calm. “Thedas is burning and all they care about is securing alliances. Don’t they understand we have better things to do than plan their demise?” 

“Well, they don’t know that. To them, we stand out as a threat. So far, Solas has kept himself hidden.” Josephine says, gripping the clipboard in her hands tightly. “To Empress Celene, we look like a small military state trying to take over.  She has grown quite paranoid that the Inquisition is out to get her—or at least, to install someone who is loyal to the Inquisition.” 

“Then we do it without them.” Ry’del stands from his seat, pacing around the room. “We’ve done it before—what’s stopping us now?” 

“You said it yourself, we’re spread too thin and with Solas’ troops getting bolder, we won’t last long.” Cassandra moves around the pieces on the war table. “Nessum, Caimen Brea, Trevis, Hunter Fell is in Fen’Harel hands. Nevarra City is holding on by the skin of its teeth and the Imperial Highway has a skeleton crew.” She looks at Ry’del. “We’re desperate.” 

“And they know that.” Dorian takes a deep breath. “How far have we fallen?” He sighs. Years ago, the Inquisition was welcomed like heros—a necessity for peace and now, empires question its direction while everything crumbled before their eyes.  

Josephine bites her lip, frustration reading easily on her face. “I...perhaps have a solution.” She seems to think so deeply. “You will hate it, but Divine Victoria has quietly given her approval and would follow along with the Inquisition’s plans if you choose to go through it.” 

Ry’del raises his brows, waiting for Josephine to continue. Dorian feels his stomach turn even more—Leliana hasn’t been the kindest in years. There is an inkling of exactly what  _ Divine Victoria  _ had in mind. 

“Our forces are in Cumberland, yes?” Josephine glances at the map. She wrings her fingers. “Retreat them.”

The room is quiet. 

“That is a dangerous suggestion.” Cassandra speaks first, leaning forwards on her hands, eyes glued on the war map. 

“Josephine, we’re going to lose so many innocent people,” Ry’del says softly.

“Yes,” Josephine nods, “we will lose many. But with Orlais only providing so little of their army, we will not win the bigger war.” 

Dorian briefly closes his eyes, thinking it through as logically as he can. “Without Inquisition aid, the little soldiers Celene deploys will be crushed. Cumberland will fall, creating a path to Val Chevin.”

“A large gamble,” Cassandra says, breath shaky. Everyone in that room knows what it could mean. On one hand, Celene will see the Inquisition’s impact and lend the whole might of her soldiers.  _ Or _ , Celene will not yield and Inquisition troops will be surrounded. 

“Celene will not yield.” Ry’del says. 

“If you trust me,” Josephine looks uncertain but Dorian ignores it, “she will yield.”

 

**++**

 

Vinaeres grabs the back of my neck, turning it towards the direction she pointed at. "Pay attention will you?" She sounds irritated, but I tell myself it's because of the humidity. 

In the distance, Brigand and Ditrik are approaching the Mien'Harel camp in Hasmal from the west, ducking behind crates and wagons, slinking rough tents to avoid being seen. 

"I don't know why you sent Di, of all people." Vinaeres muttered. 

I shrug, "he can be sneaky when he wants to." 

Vinaeres scoffs, "sure." We're quiet for a while, watching Ditrik plant explosives around the camp's perimeter while Brigand takes care of any stragglers that may prove a problem later. He stops for a second to wave towards our position, and this makes me smile. Vinaeres just groans.

“Here comes Annalise,” Vinaeres stands from her prone position and dusts herself off. “Marek, want to make a bet?” 

I frown, “what?”

“Quickly! Do you want to make a bet or not?” She’s grinning.

“About what?” I stand too, picking up my staff. 

“Who gets the most kill!” Vinaeres starts running down the hill and towards the camp, “I bet on Brigand!”

I groan, following behind her, “That’s not fair.” 

“Bet, brother!” Vinaeres laughs. “Loser has to continuously compliment Cullen’s hair for a whole day.” 

Not the worst thing ever since we’ve started doing this, but the Commander’s awkward and bumbling way of accepting compliments is hard to watch. “Ditrik.” I decide and Vinaeres shakes her head, pausing a bit, to duck behind a tree. 

She changes her position to a crouch. “Your loss. When he starts screaming his head off, no one is going to want to get near him.” 

“Well, he might just surprise you.” I say, knowing what she said is right. Brigand has always been quick with his daggers. Even Annalise is a better bet than Ditrik—not that I’d ever tell him that.

“A deal it is,” Vinaeres says, a sudden switch in her demeanor as we approach the camp from the south. I spy Annalise by the gates, approaching the guards, posing as a merchant traveller. 

We can’t hear her conversation well, but it didn’t matter. It’s Ditrik who detonates the explosives and scrambles the others in the camp. Annalise moves with quick spells and as soon as she casts a storm spell, Vinaeres jumps up, charging for the camp. 

I’ve had the pleasure of watching Vinaeres fight in a battle before, but her precision is always stunning to watch. She looks like she’s marching across the field, every movement calculated. To see her by Annalise who danced while she fought is strange but that’s why they worked together so well. While Vinaeres logically took on her enemies, Annalise covers the logical movements with her lavish and exaggerated movements.

A second explosion happens, and I know this is my cue. I run up to the side of the camp and Ditrik is waiting for me.

“Ready?” He pulls me forward. 

“Never,” I answer, and he smiles. 

“Neither am I.” 

We join the fray. It’s chaotic and bloody, but between the five of us, we down enemy after enemy. Ditrik rages and I cast spell after spell next to him. It doesn’t take long between our slashing and hacking to be covered in blood—bringing something out in Ditrik he calls a blood song. 

“It sings in my ears,” he had said once in the darkness before we slept. “Calling for the need to rip flesh from bone and bathe in its blood.” It’s never pleasant, and when I look at Ditrik when he is this way, he seems to be in a trance, following only what the song tells him. 

I’m distracted when a rogue elf appears from nowhere. I yell out to warn him, but Ditrik’s in a state of mind he can’t break from. I put myself between them. The rogue elf plunges one of his blades into my shoulder, and Ditrik’s attention snaps to him and I know that is the end for the elf. 

As the elf tries to get up, Ditrik swings his elbow into the elf’s nose, leaving it broken and bloody. The elf is stunned and Ditrik slams him down, crushing his windpipe. I hear the elf choking on his own blood, but before the elf could notice that he’s dying, Ditrik is already on to the next enemy.   

It continues like this, and the wave of enemies seem endless.

Hasmal is a heavily guarded area and the Mien’Harel has set up two outposts near the Hasmal Circle. It was always impossible for five people to capture camps and outposts ourselves. 

But, capturing camps and outposts is not our goal. We, the Praeventoris, are vanguards, tasked by Cullen to clip the enemies wings before it even knows what’s happening. And like clockwork, I hear the hoofbeats of horses and the war cry of the Inquisition army. The Praeventoris know this is our signal and we take our leave, moving on to the next camp. 

The Hasmal raid continues for two or more weeks. The Inquisition moves quickly throughout Hasmal, taking on waves of Mien’Harel forces. But it’s no match for the Inquisition, and the Praeventoris is welcomed in Inquisition camps like heroes. And I know, as their cheers fill my ears, this is the life I have been coveting.

 

That evening, I make a decision. I whisper it in Ditrik’s ear as we make love—”I’ll do whatever it takes to win this war—I will be deserving of you.” 

I ignore him when he tells me I am enough.   

 

**++**

 

The Inquisition retreats, gathering their army into Ghislain—answering letters from Val Royeaux with dead silence. And then the inevitable—a letter confirming what the Inquisition already knows. What the Inquisition let happen. It comes later that Empress Celene Valmont has been unseated by Gaspard de Chalons, prized now for his tactical brilliance on the battlefield. Dorian knows what strings and what favors or debts Josephine must have accumulated to see it through. It doesn’t take long for the Inquisition to get the full backing of the entire Orlesian army, with the Chevaliers at the helm. And soldiers on the east becomes even more ferocious, pushing against the Mien’Harel camps through the Waking Sea and into the borders of Nevarra. 

The eluvians, are shattered—brought to Divine Victoria herself—and it forces the bulk of Solas’ army to march north. It will take them months, with the Ferelden army holding fast. It feels like the war is being won, but Solas has not shown himself once. 

That is a bigger concern, Dorian is convinced. 

 

He holds Ry’del’s hand in his, trying to soothe his own nerves, but he feels his  _ Amatus _ fingers tremble. 

 

**++**

 

In the dead of the night, one of the guards calls for me outside my tent. I’m pulled from my nightmare—as if I was thrown across the room and the flash of teeth and bright eyes stare at me before I blink it away. I don’t move, feeling the caresses of spirits in my head. I know what this is—I know I am frozen by fear, pathetically shaking off the fast beating of my heart and the quickness of my breath. 

Ditrik, who has gotten so used to this, leaves a chaste kiss on my lips, “you’re awake, Marek.” He whispers, before quickly dressing to see what the guard needed. 

Alone in the dark, I take deep breaths, calming down with each release. The nightmares are stronger now, and they happen more intensely, it bleeds into my days. I feel demons lurking in every corner. Vinaeres assures me there isn’t any, but the heaviness in me can’t be anything but.

Ditrik returns, staring, “it’s gotten even worse, hasn’t it?” A tension in his voice. 

“No,” I say. He knows I’m lying, but he say nothing more about it. Instead, he sits on my side of the cot.

“News come that the Inquisition in the west is pushing north for Tevinter.”

I sit up, cold sweat on my brow. “And?” 

“Cullen was ordered to do the same,” he says. Ditrik looks me in the eyes. “He’s giving the Praevatoris a choice.” He talks about charging Tevinter by ourselves. To secure the border for Cullen’s army—or to disband the Praevatoris and be part of the army. 

“I see,” I breath. My hands are cold. “What do you think?” 

Ditrik squeezes my hand, “I know what I want. But you won’t listen.” 

“Try me.” 

“No. You told me war is how you fight your demons. What greater demon is there but Fen’Harel.” He looks broken—a pleading in his voice. “You want to storm Tevinter. Ahead of Cullen’s army. Ahead of the Inquisition forces.”

“Yes,” I say. 

Ditrik nods, “then I’ll fight your demons with you.”

 

In a few days, we ride for Perivantium. Ditrik and I don’t talk for days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Friends. I'm sorry. Let's talk!  
> \+ Yo, I had so many ideas for this chapter. I'm not even kidding. We'll get into that a little bit later.  
> \+ So Marek leaves for the Marches. Separating Marek and Dorian was a decision I knew I wanted to put in there right after their reunion. I did want to make the distinction that this second separation was a choice. Marek is clear that he feels he needs to go, and Dorian is hesitant but ultimately lets him go. I hope it conveys a maturity in Marek and the fatherly love Dorian has.   
> \+ Of course Ditrik is going with him. But, you know, Ry'del was the one who ordered Ditrik to go with Marek. We don't know what happens in Ry'del and Ditrik's head at all in this story--but you can definitely say that Ry'del is sending Ditrik with Marek to protect him.   
> \+ As for the whole Orlesian Mess...I didn't really know how to show the pettiness of humans in this part of the story without explicitly explaining and that really dragged on the narrative. I always thought that the Inquisition's power in general and influence was so strong--especially in this time, and so it feels threatening for Empress Celene. She demands a show of the Inquisition working FOR the Orlesian Empire, when realistically, this would make Ferelden nervous.   
> \+ Josephine for sure planned--or already planned a coup.   
> \+ This scene was insanely changed, btw. There weren't even talking about the same thing. Originally, Celene wanted to do a marriage alliance. Josephine plans a fake wedding with a Orlesian/Vint duchess (Evonne Laurent), whose family hails from House Pertinax (if you remember them at all). It was going to be this whole fake marriage between Evonne and Marek and like Evonne was really more of a messenger because she had safer routes, etc. It got so complicated and I didn't want to use Evonne as some sort of competition for Ditrik (because Marek would never in the first place).  
> \+ But I did have a short annoyed Ditrik scene that involved some steamy scenes. Mainly Marek actually actively trying to tease, only to annoy Ditrik. Here is a scene:  
> "I never said I'd marry her!" I say, folding my arms across my chest. I hide the smile forming on my lips.  
> Ditrik raises an eyebrow, "yet here you are, entertaining the idea."   
> "Are you...getting angry," I ask.   
> "I'm not becoming your concubine." He says simply.  
> "What?"   
> \+ Introduction of the Praevatoris! So I figured Marek needs to have his own team. They're a vanguard team that goes ahead of everyone and basically clears out what they can to lighten the load for the rest. It's really effective for them and helps Cullen out a lot.   
> \+ This also shows that Vinaeres calls Marek "brother." *cries*  
> \+ ALSO, there is something in this part that explains the last part of this chapter. And maybe a hint of what's to come.   
> \+ I'm going to be honest. I won't be updating at all in the next month. Hopefully, once I get back from my vacation, I'll have energy and the creative juices to finish!  
> \+ PS: I also wrote a short [E] scene between Dorian and Ry'del...supposedly taking place after their reunion. I mean, it's as [E] as I can write. I'm not very good at those because I hate all the other words for penis. And in general, I can't.   
> ++++++++ As always... THANK YOU LOTS AND MUCH LOVE to those who commented, Kudos-ed, and in general stuck around. Always love seeing support! <3


	21. Symbols, a Name (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the end begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I know it's been way over a month. So I am a liar. I was on holiday around the end of March until the end of April...and TRIED to write, but in between running around places, that wasn't really going to happen. Then when I got back, I was all swamped with work and laziness and jet-lag (I went out of the country--a sixteen hour difference, omg, I know). But I was writing like a paragraph here and there until I finished. And today, I finished! Also, I'm leaving for a second holiday in June--lmao. On my birthday too--I hate flying on my birthday. 
> 
> This chapter bumps the rating up a bit. It's not really explicit, but thought I would just give a small warning. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. Sorry for being gone for so long. And as usual, my thoughts at the end of the chapter. Your thoughts and love matter to me so much (so please let me feel it).

**|| Symbols, a Name (Part I)**

**|| Twenty One**

 

Victory sits on my head like a golden crown. Men who fought in war after war praise us as we return to the Inquisition camp. We young warriors are saluted like veteran soldiers and treated like heroes.

I stand tall with the Praeventoris—head big with ideas of grand glory. Vinaeres is proud, with her shoulders square and others look up to her. Annalise warns me to not let myself stray, but I don’t listen, only paying attention to how Ditrik loyally stands by my side. Little words are passed between us, but he embraces me at night.

And even when I see the look of fear on his face I don't listen.

 

**++**

 

The cold winds of Val Dorma are everything but soothing—there is an uneasiness in the air and Dorian finds himself reflecting on his past. Before Marek, before Ry’del, before Alexius, before Rilienus, before he had any semblance of who he was. He could barely remember it, knowing only that he worked his fingers to the bone to hear small praises. Now, he stood by one of the greatest heroes Thedas has ever seen—he himself hailed a hero.

Dorian wonders if he deserves it. He mustn't think that way, but how could he not? Has he done everything he can? Has he given it his all? Has he—.

“You're thinking very loudly,” his _Amatus_ jokes, bumping their shoulders together. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Dorian sighs, some things he wants to keep to himself.

Ry’del hums, “do you want some space?” He says this without judgement or bitterness.

Dorin hesitates for a moment, “no. It's fine.” He leans against the ramparts, watching Ry’del’s face.

His _Amatus_ looks away, a redness on his cheeks. “Even after all these years, I can't get used to it.”

Dorian smiles at this, reaching out to touch his hair. “And I can't stop looking.”

It is Ry'del's turn to look deep in thought. Dorian only waits for him to speak. “We cannot escape the realities of war,” he says, serious and melancholic in tone and expression. “I need to know that you will be okay when— _if_ —I don't come back.” He swallows, hand gripping at the stone wall.

Dorian says nothing, not wanting to say it out loud. He kisses Ry’del instead—quickly, quietly, loving, and sweet.

He knows Ry’del doesn't understand it, but accepts the reply.

They sit there in the darkness, shivering in the cold.

Then, Ry'del confesses, flatly, determined.  “The day I meet Solas in the battlefield, I will not save him.”

 

**++**

 

“Ambush!” Vinaeres roars, swinging her staff backwards as she casts spell after spell. I watch her pull on the reigns of her horse, making a sharp turn. “Marek, orders!” She demands. Everything seems to slow—the Mien’Harel had finally caught up to our strategy and it is clear we are outnumbered.

I turn towards Annalise and I see the irritation and hesitation on her face. She’ll follow my orders, I know this. Vinaeres will ask for them and Ditrik—I look at him and he only stares out to our enemies. His hand at the hilt of his sword. I think of how he knows me too well. Our eyes meet for a moment and he seems to let out a breath before charging forward with a cry. I follow with no hesitation and soon, we are in the thick of it.

We dance on the battlefield, moving fluidly through enemy after enemy. Vinaeres joins us and together it’s easy to cut them down—but Annalise shouts for help, Brigand on her shoulder as she tries to get away from a Qunari soldier.

Vinaeres curses under her breath and nods towards Ditrik before fade stepping towards Annalise. She takes over while Annalise tries to heal Brigand.

“Marek!” Ditrik calls and when I look up I get knocked back by a soldier. I recover quickly, gathering my mana and cast a chain lightning. Ditrik helps me up and we continue our assault.

“There’s too many of them,” Ditrik takes a deep breath with his back pressed to mine.

I take a lyrium potion, “this is nothing.” It’s a lie, I feel my energy draining but how do I give up? If we hold them off until Cullen’s army gets here, all will be fine—I convinced myself to believe this.

Ditrik says nothing and moves ahead of me, wilder than usual, stronger than usual. I call to him but he doesn’t hear me and we get separated. I am distracted for a moment and lose sight of him through the barrage of enemies.

And it is this distraction that leads me with a knife to my belly. It only took seconds—perhaps less for it to happen and bit longer still for me to realize. I look up at the soldier who does it, determination on his face.

I stagger, realizing his daggers have been poisoned. It saps my mana away, and my strength wavers.

“Ditrik,” I gasp, but he can’t hear me. The soldier drives his blade towards my chest, but I jerk back. He misses but catches me on the shoulder, twisting it deeper before pulling it out to deliver another blow. I do my best to keep my staff raised but I knew—as soon as I felt the sharp pain and the amount of blood I see seeping through my fingers—it is only a matter of time. The force of his attack sends me to my knees.

Has battle always been this painful?

I wish fervently to at least catch a glimpse of Ditrik’s face. Or touch him.

This couldn't be it. I don't let myself believe it, but I accept the possibility. Such things are the realities of war.

I have been told this many times.

The soldier who cut me down doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t smile—because he is, after all, a soldier like the rest of us here. To him, my death is his survival. It doesn’t matter who I am.

He lunges at me and knocks the staff out of my hands. I take a painful breath. As he takes a second to make his next move, I gather enough mana to materialize a spirit blade. The soldier doesn’t realize this and parries too late—he sputters blood, clawing at his neck where the spirit blade now fizzles out. The soldier limps and I roll him off me.

Another painful breath and everything goes black.

 

**++**

 

Horns blare in the early afternoon and soldiers scamper about. Dorian, looks out, ready for what trouble is afoot.

“Riders!” Someone shouts.

“Inquisition banners!” They confirm and the gates to the Val Dorma fort slowly ascend.

“Praeventoris!” Another calls out towards the barracks.

Dorian’s face lights up and he makes his way down.

Then—“Rouse Master Atven!” It’s Ry’del who orders it this time. A soldier takes a horse and gallops out.

“What’s happening?” Dorian demands, briskly walking towards Ry’del who stands by the gates. Ry’del squeezes Dorian’s shoulder, “someone is injured.” He says this so flatly, but the worry on his face is palpable.

When the soldier comes back, he’s got Brigand on his side, followed by Annalise. “Inquisitor—” he huffs, moving to get Brigand off the horse. “Master Pavus, your boy—he’s—!”

Vinaeres rides in, followed by Ditrik who has Marek slumped behind him.

“I don’t know what happened!” Ditrik pulled Marek off, cursing when he trips backwards. Dorian’s hands shake as he gets Marek down, gently laying him down on the ground. “A tarp—something!” He orders and a soldier brings him something to cover the ground with. “Help me with him.” The soldier does as he is told and they lift Marek up to put him on the tarp.  “Atven!” Ry’del calls, letting Ditrik lean on him as his legs give out from under him.

“Wait,” Ditrik struggles to go to Marek, but Ry’del keeps him in place. “Wait, please.”

It’s Vinaeres who steps up, holding her brother’s face in her hands. “Let a healer tend to you. You’ll just be in the way.” She admonishes him and he listens.

“Inquisitor, I’m sorry. I should—!” Annalise says quickly, but Ry’del lifts a hand to stop her.

“Cullen?” He looks at her, painfully demanding and rough.

Annalise licks her lips, “They are managing. They came right near the end of the ambush and we took our leave then.”

Ry’del turns his attention back to Marek, who is so pale he looks almost dead. Dorian sits by his side, muttering healing spells that do nothing as his wounds keep reopening.

Dorian curses under his breath, sweat on his brow. “Come on, Marek,” he pleads. Repeating the spells over and over again.

“Move aside,” Atven pushes through those gathered around them and kneels by Marek’s side. “Stop,” he commands Dorian and sets his instruments by Marek. Atven heats a needle and soaks his thread in alcohol, working quickly and neatly to close up the open wounds. Dorian watches in quiet but frantic trust.

Atven finishes the last of his stich, checking on Marek’s temperature and pulse. He glances nervously at Ry’del but tries not to let Dorian see it— Dorian sees it anyway. “Cast your spell now.” Atven says, moving aside to let Dorian do his part. Marek is surrounded in a warm green glow, and it works—albeit slowly.

 

**++**

 

“He will recover,” Atven says, putting a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, “his wounds will heal in a few days....but it will take longer for his body to purge the poison from his body. His reserves are low as of right now and when he returns to the battlefield, he must be ready to fight without relying too much on his magic.”

Dorian takes a deep breath, clutching Marek’s hand in his. The word _when_ scares him, because he knows Marek will insist on it despite Dorian’s reservations.

 

**++**

 

_The day blurs into night, quickly, like a thunderstorm. In the distance, a wolf stands still, staring out into a void._

_Marek approaches it slowly, but he feels like he is gliding. Before he could reach it, a burst of light blinds him and he falls to his knees._

_There should be fear, Marek thinks, but he feels nothing...only the warmth of light._

 

**++**

 

I wake up with a shudder, blinking around the darkness and I wonder only for a moment if this is death.

When I realize I am in a bed, I try to sit up, feeling the soreness of my muscles and the dull ache of my wounds. Then, panic starts to set in because I can’t move. I hear low whispers around me and a vial is thrust below my nose before I quickly fall back asleep.

 

**++**

 

_When the light disperses, the wolf is in front of him, impossibly large and daunting._

_It opens its jaws wide and Marek feels its hot breath on his face._

 

**++**

 

Dorian is encouraged to keep himself busy—out of the way, is what they mean, while Marek recovers. Even Ry’del has to remind him to calm down. He spends his time in the library, picking out books that he never reads—staring at words that he can't make sense off and thinking of everything and nothing all at once.

A soft knock startles Dorian and he turns to look behind him. Ry’del sighs, leaning against the door frame. “Marek woke up for a short while before Atven put him back to sleep.”

Dorian stands, “why didn't you tell me?” Then, “can I see him?”

“Yes,” Ry’del reaches out to brush Dorian’s hair away from his face. “But he is in deep sleep.”

Dorian covers Ry’del’s hand with his. How he must look, with red eyes. “It's been days.”

“You must be patient for a little longer. He is doing well. Sleep is his healer now.” Ry’del says quietly, leaning forward to press a kiss on his cheek. “Go see him, calm your heart, my love.”

The things his _Amatus_ says still makes him fall deeper in love. “I’ll go to him then,” Dorian returns the kiss.

 

The door to Marek’s room looms like a monster, ready to swallow whatever goes inside. Dorian’s stomach turns, remembering how Marek looked like when Ditrik brought him through the gates of Val Dorma—like a sack of bloodied bones, covered in bruises. He was dead, Dorian almost convinced himself, and only breathed when he heard Marek groan. Then there was Ditrik, pale-faced Ditrik with an expression on his face Dorian knows too well.

 _But he is not dead._ Dorian thinks, _and I should be grateful._ Still, other things nag at him.

Taking a deep breath, Dorian pushes the door open and it creaks as it swings open. The room is dim, smelling of crushed elfroot and lavender. It’s not unpleasant, but the body on the bed barely moves and it’s unnerving.

Dorian moves closer, letting his eyes adjust to the dark before sitting on the edge of the bed. Atven has done a good job—the bandages on Marek’s shoulder and stomach are tight and haven’t loosened. The dried poultice smeared on Marek’s temple cakes off and Dorian scrapes it away himself—inspecting the small wound. It’s red, but healing well. Even so, Dorian replaces the poultice and wipes the sweat off Marek’s brow. Marek groans at the touch, but he doesn’t wake.

The silence is deafening—and Dorian feels like suffocating.

“Marek,” he says this softly, “you’re how old now? Twenty? Twenty-one? You’re no longer that small, confused child that came to me all those years ago. I tried to be so brave when I took you in as my son. I knew that this was your future then—or maybe it wasn’t and I made it feel like all this was the only path you could take. I made a mistake. I should have practiced more restraint and made you learn at your own pace. I _forced_ you didn’t I? Passed off your training as something amazing and fun—all you did as a child was duel and spar, and I wonder if I did enough to give you a childhood.”

“But I guess it doesn’t matter now, everyone tells me you’re a soldier. An Inquisition soldier created by my paranoia, circumstance, and war. I can’t deny it, Little One. You _are_ a soldier, I see it in your eyes and the way you look at war—I suppose, in that way, you are much like Ry’del—but please remember that you are also a son. _My_ son. Remember that you are a son first, a soldier second. And think of me, and how my heart will break if you are gone.”

Marek doesn’t stir, his soft breathing calm and even. Dorian takes a deep breath, pushing the hair from Marek’s forehead.

Dorian doesn’t know if Marek heard any of what he had said, but it doesn’t matter. Right now, of all times, it didn’t matter.

 

**++**

 

_Marek stares at the wolf’s dark mouth._

_Then, he climbs inside as it closes its jaws shut._

 

**++**

 

My eyes snap open, sweat on my brow and my heart beating fast. I look around—there is little light coming from a dying candle and barely does much to help. I try to sit up and the wounds on my stomach sends a pang of pain through me. I groan, leaning back on the headboard of the bed and placed a hand over my stomach. I’m covered in bandages and try to pick at it.

“Marek?” I look up, peering through the dim room. The voice is quiet, undeniably familiar.

“Ditrik,” I call out, my voice hoarse from the lack of use. I see his figure walk towards me, and when I see his face a smile breaks across my lips.

“Where are we,” I ask, reaching my hand to him and he takes it, kissing it before sitting on the bed to kiss me.

I catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are red and he has a pained expression on his face. “Val Dorma. We raced you here—Marek, I was—!”

“So it was close,” I grin, because it’s all I think I can offer. He glares at me. “Ditrik,” I say, caressing his cheek with a hand. He slaps my hand away and kisses me deeply—ravenous, like an animal. He bites and kisses all over my neck—chest.

“I want to feel you,” he mutters, ripping the blanket away from me. Ditrik undoes the string to my breeches exposing me to him. He doesn’t think twice and takes me in his mouth.

“Ditrik!” I gasp, knowing he’s never been fond of doing this. But he pushes himself, taking me deeper into his throat I could hear him gag. He pulls away with a cough and goes a bit slower, rubbing me in the insides of his cheek. Ditrik reaches up and pulls my hands towards his head and I take his hair between my fingers—but I dare not hurt him. “ _Ditrik_.” I repeat, with more conviction.

“Keep saying my name.” He huffs, moaning. When he sits up, his face is flushed, the same irritated and pained expression on his face. “I want to feel you,” he repeats, taking off his clothes. I grip his arms and he stops with a gasp.

“Ditrik, what are you doing?” I demand, concerned.

He pulls away and straddles my lap. “Just—I need to—!” Ditrik frowns, frustration on his face. He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Will you hold me, Marek?” His voice wavers, at the edge of fear and desperation.  

I bite my lip, “yes.” I say and reach out to touch him. Ditrik only shakes his head and I watch him press my cock inside him and—I know what pleasure sounds like on his tongue. _This_ , I know, is pain.

“Ditrik, you’ll hurt yourself.” I hold him by his waist, but he doesn’t listen. He moves roughly, his rhythm erratic. All I do is dig my fingers into his skin and he gasps and moans, making sure he takes all of me. I feel frozen, listening to him pant with every move.  

I think he is bleeding.

Ditrik throws his head back, muttering my name as he touches himself.

His name blows through me, and he finishes on his hands. When he sees me looking he only shivers and smears his seed across his stomach. I shudder. He works harder to bring me to my completion, it doesn’t take long and I finish inside him.

Ditrik closes his eyes. “You’re here,” he sighs, opening his eyes to look straight at me. He touches my lips before kissing me. “I thought you were there. I thought you followed.” He starts. “I didn’t think—” Ditrik’s voice croaks after a while.

“Ditrik,” I press my face in the crook on his neck. “Ditrik, let me clean you. I think you're hurt.”

He shudders, “no.” He stands, struggling to get on his feet.

“Ditrik…”

“Your bandages can't get wet.” He simply says.

“Ditrik.” I demand, grabbing his wrist.

“What?” He turns sharply to face me, eyes redder than before and tears falls from his blue eyes.

My heart pounds wildly in my chest. This feeling, I think, is true fear. “Ditrik.” I breathe, pulling him towards me for an embrace. My wounds ache, but it’s nothing compared to what Ditrik may be feeling.

“Let’s get married.” He whispers suddenly. “When this is all over, let’s get married.”

“Yes.” I answer, and I think of nothing but him.

“Be there at the end, swear it.” Ditrik kisses me.

“I swear it.” I lie, because I understand the realities of war.

 

**++**

 

It takes almost a week for Marek to get back on his feet and already, he picks up his staff—and a sword. His magic hasn’t completely returned, but Atven assures Dorian that in time it will. Marek announces to Dorian and Ry’del that he’ll continue to Minrathous with the Praeventoris as planned. Nothing will stop him, Dorian knew this—even Ditrik’s pleading will do nothing. So he kisses his son.

“Marek,” Dorian says. “Remember there is life after victory—whether it be our own or Solas’. So return to us. Return to us after this all ends.”

Marek doesn’t mean to be cruel, but he is. “I cannot make such promises. You know this, Father.” Even crueler, he says such things with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I think I've been hinting at Marek's hero syndrome for a while now. I think it boasts his ego a little bit too and makes him a bit reckless. It also doesn't help that Ditrik is his battle partner and is equally reckless. Marek should actually have been working with Annalise. It's been in my head that Ditrik and Marek are the worst team put together because of that impulsiveness on the battlefield. Marek would have probably worked really well with Annalise and Vinaeres with her brother. But--ya know, I was SACRED BAND OF THEBES-ing this. What's ironic though is that it's not really recklessness that costs Marek. Ha.  
> \- In the game, Dorian says something like, "if we're not dead after this..." and that just made me think about how he, after everything, can't accept it anymore. And he's lived his life for so long with Ry'del and Marek... he doesn't want to lose it. But he isn't stupid either. He knows that in war, shit happens. Ry'del feels this, so he kind of wants assurance that Dorian isn't going to lose it if Ry'del doesn't come back. Dorian doesn't want to say that he will be okay, because he knows he won't. It's not something he really wants to think about, but it's there. On the other hand, Ry'del--since we don't really hear his thoughts, has decided that Solas is going DOWN. I'm sure he thought about it a lot. There is actually a "deleted scene" where I have Dorian and Ry'del discussing their relationship with Solas. And it reveals how hurt and betrayed Ry'del was by it.  
> \- Well, everything I hate happened during the ambush (writing-wise). At some point, Solas' people are going to figure out a pattern. I think this whole part is really us getting to know a side of Marek that sort of developed after his time with the Praeventoris. Marek isn't as focused as he was before--probably because he's still high off victory after victory and probably overestimated his team's skill. They're good, but what is good when you have hoard after hoard of enemies at your back? Think of the Orzammar mission with the waves of demons after demons (am I the only one who struggled with that? Probably because I was trying to do it when I was a little weakling).  
> \- I mainly want to talk about a line that the Inquisitor and Marek share... "such things are the realities of war." We hear this quite a bit between Ry'del and Marek. I think it shows the kind of ideologies that Ry'del has instilled in Marek during their time together. But at the same time, it's also an ode to Marek's acceptance that he is a soldier. Coupled with his night terrors and what he sees enemies as, it makes Marek kind of volatile and maybe his understanding of "realities of war" is different from Ry'del's. Also, I think it's cute that Marek copies the Inquisitor when he can.  
> \- Annalise was tasked by the Inquisitor to keep Marek safe. He extended this to even after the Praeventoris was created. Yet, she returns with Marek basically dying? Undoubtedly, she feels incredibly guilty. Did I tell ya'll that Annalise has a kid somewhere? I feel like I did, but let me just repeat. She has a small child that lives with a family member. No one knows who is the kid's dad. Also, Annalise and Brigand /may/ have a thing going on, I don't know though.  
> \- Dorian weirdly hates that Marek is in the war--but also understands that he pretty much prepared Marek for this because Dorian knew that the war was going to be there and Marek would need to know how to protect himself. I personally think that Dorian made the right choice, but as a father, he doesn't really want that for his kid. Also, seeing Marek almost die was a pretty big shock and at that point I think he realizes how real it has become.  
> \- Marek's dream is important. Think about this, okay?  
> \- Out of all the people right now, Ditrik probably feels the worst because he's suppose to be Marek's battle buddy and he failed at it because he was engrossed in the battle. It's not his fault, Marek also kind of freezes in battle. But seeing Marek bleeding that much (because he probably saw Marek at his worst condition with all the blood and stuff) really scared him and he reacts in a way that is partly immature and impulsive. Their sex isn't really super cute, but rather more desperate. I hope that translated well. Haha. I really wanted to portray a Ditrik who was scared and needy. Someone who needed to be assured. Ugh. And Marek kind of does, but does he really?  
> \- Ditrik asking Marek to marry him was something I wrote so long ago, but it wasn't happening in these circumstances. The original had a way different tone. And Ditrik says something like, "let's get married and sail to the east like Pirates. And we'll have sex all the time." Lol, it was not sad like this.  
> \- It's time, to move this along to Minrathous.  
> \- Thank you all for reading and keeping up with me. I'm really enjoying myself and I hope you stay by my side until the end.


End file.
